1  1  IjL*  w3Jr  jL^JL/JL/  v-/f 


ANGE  M.MOSHER 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


Ex  Lib r is 


Frederick  &  Emmanuelle 
D'Hauthuille-Schwartz 


4..     <f?.      C? 


fLc .    /f  2  £> 


PHOTO  BY  MC  CAUL  AND  DICKSO 


ANGE  M.  MOSHER 


THE    SPELL    OF 
BRITTANY 


BY 

ANGE  M.  MOSHER 

with  an  introduction  by 

ANATOLE  LEBRAZ 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK 

DUFFIELD    AND    COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,   1920,  by 
DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


I. 

II. 
III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XL 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 


XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 


PAGE 

Foreword        i 

Introduction v 

An  Introduction  to  Brittany 3 

History  of  Brittany 8 

Chartres,  Vitre  and  Les  Rochers 13 

Madame   De   Sevigne 1G 

Rennes,  Dol  and  Du  Guesclin 25 

Folk-Lore  and  Jeanne  de  Pontorson     ....  32 

Mont  St.  Michel  and  Its  Legends 39 

St.  Malo  and  Chateaubriand 48 

A  Folk  Song  of  St.  Malo 56 

DlNARD,    DlNAN   AND   EXCURSIONS 61 

Felix   de   Lamennais 66 

Guingamp,   Paimpol  and  Pierre  Loti    ....  76 

Treguier,   St.  Yves  and  Ernest  Renan     ...  82 

The  Legend  and  Pardon  of  St.  Yves     ....  89 

Morlaix,  Bards  and  Poets 100 

Marc'harit  Phulup  and  Job  La  Poulaine     .     .  105 

Breton  Wedding 112 

Breton  Costumes,  Landerneau,  La  Garde  Joyeuse, 

folgoat,  and  the  legend  of  the  fool     .     .     .  121 

Brest  and  the  Adjacent  Islands 128 

AUDIERNE,  AND  THE  LEGEND  OF  Ys 134 

Quimper,  Le  Faouet,  St.  Fiacre  and  the  Venus 

of  Quinipily 139 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.    The  Country  of  Guen 144 

XXIII.  Brizeux — The  National  Poet  of  Brittany     .     .  148 

XXIV.  Hennebout  and  the  Ballad  of  Jeanne  De  Mont- 

fort         151 

XXV.    Carnac  and  Legends  of  the  Druids     ....  158 

XXVI.    Legends 165 

XXVII.    Saints  and  Fairies 169 

XXVIII.    Ploermel,  the  Battle  of  the  Thirty,  and  Josselin  179 

XXIX.    Le  Croisic,  Batz  and  Guerande 185 

XXX.    Nantes  and  Anne  of  Brittany 192 

XXXI.    Clisson,  the  Grotto  of  Abelard,  and  the  Castle 

of   Tiffauges        199 

Index 207 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Ange  M.  Mosher Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Map  of  Brittany   4 

Anatole   Le   Braz    10 

Madame  De  Sevigne   18 

The  Great  Menhir  of  Dol  26 

The  Virgin  of  Rumergol   36 

Striking  a  Bargain  at  a  Breton  Market  Day  46 

Francois  Auguste  Rene  De  Chateaubriand   50 

Three  Fishermen   58 

The  Brittany   Coast    72 

Ernest  Renan 84 

The  Chapel  of  Saint  Gildas  Near  Port  Blanc  92 

A  Street  in  Morlaix   102 

Marc'harit    Phulup    106 

The  Dedication  of  the  Monument  to  Marc'harit  Phulup,  the 

Ballad   Singer    110 

A  Village  Dance  in  Brittany  118 

The   Bone   House    at  Tregastel,    Inscribed    "Today   Me,   To- 
morrow  Thee"    126 

A  Breton  Fisherman  136 

Fishing  Boats  of   Concarneau 148 

The  Alignments,  Carnac  158 

The  Miraculous  Fountain  of  Saint  Jean  Du  Doigt  1G8 

The  Sardine  Factory   176, 

Anne   of  Brittany 192 

A  Group  of  Bretons   196 


FOREWORD 

MENTAL  and  the  Spiritual — so  have  I  found  my 
Brittany. 

At  the  start  there  was  the  charm  of  a  varied 
landscape — the  hills  of  granite — stretches  of  moors 
— picturesque  valleys  watered  by  limpid  streams — 
the  soft  atmosphere  beloved  by  artists.  It  was 
Brittany  on  its  topographic  side. 

I  had  met  my  attractive  friend! 

Then  as  I  continued  my  travels,  summer  after 
summer,  I  came  to  know  the  old  churches — the 
sculptured  Calvaries,  the  mediaeval  chateaux,  and 
the  history  of  Brittany,  dramatic  and  thrilling,  re- 
vealed the  traits  and  qualities  of  the  race.  I  came 
to  know  the  customs  of  the  country,  and  the 
primitive  appliances  in  the  various  industries  and 
homely  crafts,  picturesque  and  appealing. 

My  friend  had  revealed  his  mental,  intellectual, 
and  artistic  side. 

But  the  Soul  was  discovered  by  slow  degrees — 
as  journey  succeeded  journey.  For  the  Breton  is 
reserved.  Behind  those  many  rows  of  buttons  that 
adorn  the  embroidered  gilet  he  is  entrenched.  But 
in  the  end  he  may  be  won. 

The  Folk  Lore  of  any  nation  reveals  its  tempera- 


ii  FOREWORD 

ment.  "As  the  wind  of  a  century  passes  across  the 
life  of  a  people  and — songs  are  made  and  stories 
are  woven  which  tell  what  was  felt  and  what  was 
done." 

"Once  upon  a  time"  each  fairy  tale  begins,  and 
"they  say"  commences  the  story  of  something  in  the 
life  of  somebody,  in  the  land  of  Somewhere. 
While  the  temperament  of  a  race  is  mirrored  in 
its  fairy  tale  and  folk-songs,  its  faith  and  beliefs 
are  set  forth  in  the  Legends  of  the  Saints  or  heroes 
of  the  country.  But  the  acquaintance  becomes  in- 
timate only  when  we  have  come  into  the  every- 
day life — if  we  share  the  neighbourhood  experi- 
ences of  a  community,  we  make  one  of  the  little 
christening  party  at  the  church.  We  sit  with  the 
family  around  the  Yule  log  on  Christmas  Eve.  We 
join  in  the  processions  on  Saints'  days.  We  share 
the  excitement  and  the  rejoicings  attending  the  be- 
trothal of  a  young  man  and  maiden  of  the  parish. 
We  take  part  in  the  marriage  festivities.  And 
when  Death  enters  the  household  we  participate  in 
the  sorrows  of  those  who  mourn.  We  make  one  of 
the  little  group  at  the  "Veillee." 

And  thus  we  discover  the  soul  of  the  beloved — 
be  it  friend — or  be  it  country.  Only  within  the 
last  ten  years  have  I  arrived  at  this  third  and  most 
important  phase  in  my  association  with  my  adopted 
country — la  belle  et  douce  et  bonne  Bretagne. 

I  often  wonder  if  it  is  worth  while  to  travel  in 


FOREWORD  '  iii 

Brittany  before  knowing  the  legends  of  the  coun- 
try and  the  race.  A  friend  lately  said  to  me:  "I 
motored  all  through  Brittany  last  summer,  but  I 
didn't  know  there  were  any  legends.  I  wish  I  had 
known  there  were  legends."  When  I  learned  that 
she  had  rushed  through  the  very  Forest  of  Broce- 
liande — doubtless  raising  a  cloud  of  dust  as  she 
passed  by  the  fountain  of  Barenton — doubtless 
trailing  the  odor  of  gasolene  past  the  very  tomb 
where  Vivian  lies  enchanted — moreover  had 
whisked  madly  past  the  hill  of  Menez-Bre,  little 
dreaming  that  near  its  summit  the  ancient  prophet 
and  bard  Gwenc'hlan,  buried  in  an  upright  posi- 
tion, has  been  waiting  through  thirteen  centuries, 
until  Brittany  has  need  of  him,  when  he  will  arise 
from  his  tomb  and  descend  from  Menez-Bre  to 
free  his  country. 

One  day  in  Paris,  I  was  awaiting  my  turn  at  the 
ticket-office  at  Cook's,  behind  two  nice  elderly  la- 
dies who  asked  for  tickets  to  Brittany.  "For  what 
place  in  Brittany?"  demanded  the  ticket-seller. 
"Oh,  just  Brittany,  we  don't  know  the  names  of 
the  places,  but  we  want  to  go  to  Brittany."  But 
there  were  no  tickets  for  "just  Brittany."  How  I 
longed  to  plant  myself  on  a  bench  between  the  two 
dears  and  tell  them  a  few  legends  and  other  things. 
But  I  was  myself  tied  to  a  train  and  there  it  ended. 
But  I  have  often  recalled  the  pair  and  hoped  that 
they  would  one  day  "see  Carcassonne." 

Perhaps  these  two  incidents  have  had  their  part 


iv  FOREWORD 

in  inspiring  me  to  collect  these  legends,  hoping  that 
they  may  be  the  means  of  explaining  to  other  trav- 
ellers that  which  in  the  study  of  Brittany  is  the 
most  valuable. 


INTRODUCTION 

The  noble  woman  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for 
the  following  pages,  American  by  birth  and 
Bretonne  by  adoption,  has  not  only  been  an  honour 
to  those  two  countries,  but  to  her  sex  and  to  hu- 
manity. 

All  those  who  knew  her  on  either  side  of  the 
ocean  will  bear  witness  with  me  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  be  in  her  presence,  even  for  a  few  seconds, 
without  carrying  away  the  impression  that  you  had 
communed  with  one  whose  nature  was  most  gen- 
erous and  hospitable,  and  whose  spirit  was  most 
rich  and  comprehensive. 

It  is  two  years  now  since  Mrs.  Ange  M.  Mosher 
has  passed  away,  but  there  is  not  one  of  her  many 
friends  in  whose  memory  she  has  not  remained 
actively  present,  as  an  example  and  a  vital  prin- 
ciple; for  her  whole  existence,  it  may  be  said,  has 
been  a  magnificent  homage  to  the  value  and  beauty 
of  life. 

As  for  myself,  I  consider  it  a  unique  privilege 
to  have  known  her.  A  short  time  before  her  death, 
she  recalled  to  my  mind  the  circumstances  through 
which  I  first  made  her  acquaintance,  about  twenty 
years  ago. 

The     Union     regionaliste     bretonne,     which 

v 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

dreamed  then  of  creating,  in  our  Amorican  Brit- 
tany, national  demonstrations  analogous  to  those 
of  the  Welsh  Eisteddfod,  had  chosen  that  year,  for 
the  place  of  their  meeting,  the  little  town  of  Guin- 
gamp.  I  went  there  from  my  home  by  the  sea, 
upon  one  of  those  beautiful  September  days  which, 
in  this  extreme  western  country  of  France,  have 
such  sweet,  luminous  charm — days  already  touched 
with  the  languor  of  autumn. 

The  afternoon  meetings,  to  which  the  public  was 
invited,  were  held  in  a  kind  of  barn,  improvised 
for  the  occasion  into  an  assembly  hall.  The  deco- 
rations were  rather  ordinary;  at  the  end  of  the 
room  a  platform  had  been  made  of  rough  boards 
to  take  the  place,  as  well  as  possible,  of  a  stage.  A 
large  number  of  spectators  in  true  Breton  fashion, 
that  is  to  say,  with  a  democratic  spirit,  were  crowd- 
ing one  another  on  the  plain  wooden  benches  bor- 
rowed from  some  neighbouring  inn. 

As  I  pushed  my  way  into  the  room,  the  audience 
was  listening  spellbound  to  a  peasant  singer  whom, 
by  her  voice  and  manner,  above  all  by  the  umbrella 
pressed  tight  under  her  arm  as  an  indispensible 
attribute  to  her  person,  I  recognized  from  the 
doorway  as  my  old  friend,  Marc'harit  Phulup; 
I  shall  have  occasion  to  speak  of  her  later. 

I  was  not  long  in  noticing  before  me,  near  the 
front  row  of  seats,  the  exquisitely  beautiful  face  of 
a  woman;  it  was  evident  that  she  was  somewhat 
advanced  in  years,  but  below  the  waves  of  her  sil- 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

very,  white  hair  she  had  a  look  of  unfading,  youth- 
ful freshness.  The  black  lace  mantilla  around  her 
head,  the  long  floating  cape  of  black  silk  that  de- 
scended from  her  shoulders  to  her  feet,  in  fact  her 
whole  appearance,  indicated  that  she  was  a 
stranger.  She  was  small  of  stature,  and  age  had 
visibly  rounded  her  form,  but  a  glance  was  suf- 
ficient to  be  attracted  by  her  supreme  air  of  re- 
finement and  distinction.  This  foreigner,  of  what- 
ever nationality,  was  undoubtedly  a  notable-look- 
ing personage.  I  asked  the  poet,  Le  Goffic,  by 
whose  side  I  was  sitting,  who  this  lady  could  be? 

"I  know  nothing  about  her,"  he  said,  "except 
that  she  is  an  American,  and  this  morning,  at  the 
hotel,  she  expressed  a  desire  to  be  allowed  to  fol- 
low the  exercises  of  our  reunion." 

She  followed  them  apparently  with  the  deepest 
interest.  Her  clear,  blue  eyes,  shining  with  excite- 
ment and  enthusiasm,  did  not  leave  the  face  of 
Marc'harit  Phulup  for  one  instant;  she  did  not 
lose  any  play  of  her  physiognomy,  any  intonation 
of  her  voice.  Unable  to  follow  the  sense  of  her 
words,  which  were  in  the  Breton  language,  she 
nevertheless  imbibed,  so  to  speak,  with  her  atten- 
tive ears,  the  peculiar  accents  of  the  Celtic  melody 
to  which  the  uncultivated  voice  of  the  ballad-singer 
lent  a  primitive,  almost  wild  character  which  was 
the  more  confusing. 

When  Marc'harit  had  finished,  Mrs.  Mosher, 
not  content  with  mere  applause,  wished  to  shake 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

hands  with  her.  This  was  the  moment  that  Le 
Goffic  introduced  me.  I  was,  then,  far  from  fore- 
seeing the  role  that  America  would  play  in  my 
life;  like  many  of  my  compatriots,  I  had  very 
vague  ideas  about  it,  and  they  were,  for  the  most 
part,  erroneous.  America  seemed  a  long  way  off, 
and  neither  did  it  have  for  me  that  mysterious  at- 
traction that  distance  often  lends;  I  thought  that  I 
should  never  have  the  opportunity  of  going  there, 
and  I  did  not  even  have  the  desire  to  do  so;  in 
short,  America  remained  beyond  my  moral  as  well 
as  my  physical  horizon;  and  now,  behold  it  sud- 
denly revealed  to  me  through  one  of  its  most 
charming  incarnations!  ...  I  realized,  later,  that 
Mrs.  Mosher  was  an  exceptional  type  of  woman; 
but,  had  America  only  produced  this  one,  she 
would  have  the  right  to  be  proud  of  her  crea- 
tion. .  .  . 

We  passed  the  rest  of  the  day  together;  and  when 
I  took  leave  of  her,  at  the  approach  of  evening,  we 
had  the  conviction  when  we  parted,  that  the  words 
exchanged  during  these  short  hours  had  woven 
between  us  a  woof  of  affection  strong  and  dur- 
able, that  neither  the  passage  of  time,  nor  even 
death  itself  could  ever  break. 

The  subject  of  our  conversation  may  be  easily 
divined.  What  else  could  it  be  if  not  about  the 
Brittany  we  both  loved  so  well?  From  one  thing 
to  another,  Mrs.  Mosher  told  how,  and  at  what 
critical  turn  in  her  life  she  had  had,  according  to 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

her  own  expression,  "the  unhoped-for  happiness  of 
discovering  Brittany."  Many  times  afterward, 
she  returned  to  this  subject  to  give  details  or  com- 
plete them.  I  wish  to  relate  the  principal  inci- 
dents here;  but,  that  which  will  be  lacking  in  my 
recital — that  which,  alas!  will  be  impossible  for 
me  to  render,  is  the  graceful  manner  and  vivacious 
way  she  expressed  her  fine  emotional  feeling.  Her 
language  was  so  natural  and  original,  so  full  of 
unusual  expressions. 

Mrs.  Mosher  married  young,  and  soon  became  a 
widow;  she  was  left  with  three  daughters  upon 
whom  she  lavished  her  whole  affection,  devoting 
herself  entirely  to  their  education,  which  she  al- 
ways esteemed  the  chief  duty  of  her  life.  But, 
as  children  become  older,  their  wings  begin  to 
grow;  the  time  arrives  when  they  aspire  to  fly;  so, 
one  sad  day,  Mrs.  Mosher  found  herself  upon  the 
edge  of  an  empty  nest.  She  had  hardly  reached 
the  age  of  full  maturity;  her  destiny  was  far  from 
being  accomplished;  endowed  with  a  well-pre- 
served constitution,  she  saw  many  long,  spacious 
years  before  her;  with  what  could  she  fill  them 
usefully? 

"Free  now  to  live  for  myself,  after  having  lived 
so  long  for  others,"  she  said,  "I  began  to  wonder, 
not  without  some  anxiety,  what  would  be  the  best 
usage  I  could  make  of  my  freedom.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  do  or  where  to  go  in  order  to  accom- 
plish my  desire;  I  felt  as  if  I  were  lost.    In  such  a 


x  INTRODUCTION 

perplexing  situation  as  this,  every  woman  expects 
a  great  revelation;  for  some,  it  presents  itself  in 
one  form  or  another,  but  for  many  it  never  comes; 
mine,  however,  was  to  be  Brittany. 

"My  eldest  daughter  was  then  studying  art  in 
Paris.     I  joined  her  there  one  summer,  and  we 
were  both  asked  to  pay  a  visit  to  one  of  her  friends, 
a  young  American,  an  artist  like  herself,  whose 
parents  had  rented  for  the  season  the  Chateau  de 
la  Grand'  Cour,  near  Dinan.    You  must  remember 
that  I  was  ignorant,  then,  of  Celtic  Brittany  even 
to  its  name.     I  know  to-day  that  at  Dinan  I  was 
still  upon  the  threshold,  only;  but,  nevertheless,  it 
was  there  at  the  Chateau  de  la  Grand'  Cour  that  I 
was  initiated  into  its  existence,  and  that  in  a  most 
unusual    and    unexpected    way;    fate    sometimes 
works  intelligently.    One  evening,  as  I  was  search- 
ing among  the  books  in  the  library  of  the  old  Cha- 
teau for  something  to  take  to  my  room  to  read,  my 
hand,  by  one  of  those  providential  chances,  fell 
upon  a  large  volume  of  which  the  size  was  really 
too  important  for  my  inclination,  but  its  worn  bind- 
ing tempted  me.    What  could  it  contain  of  such 
interest  that  it  had  been  read  so  much?    I  carried 
it  off,  opened  it,  and  was  soon  absorbed  in  the  sub- 
ject.   At  the  same  time,  I  had  found  the  essential 
interest  which  was  henceforth  to  occupy  and  en- 
chant  my   life;    I   had   discovered   what   I   was 
to  do." 

This  book  was :  La  Bretagne  by  Pitre  Chevallier. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

A  superannuated  work,  perhaps,  but  it  breathed  a 
passionate  love  for  the  Breton-land,  its  ancient 
race,  history,  manners,  customs  and  traditions. 
Mrs.  Mosher  read  and  re-read  this  book  until  she 
had  well  digested  its  contents.  From  this  time 
forth,  her  great  desire  was  to  know  the  country 
described  in  the  book;  it  haunted  her  continually, 
until  she,  at  last,  took  up  her  staff,  one  day,  and 
began  to  make  most  ardent  pilgrimages  through 
Brittany.  Rarely  did  two  consecutive  summers 
pass  without  her  appearance  there.  At  regular  in- 
tervals, the  most  humble,  isolated,  lost  villages  of 
Armorica  saw  alight  from  a  public  carriage  or 
hired  wagonette  and  to  install  herself  in  some  little 
hotel  of  the  place,  a  gentlewoman  with  a  long  black 
silk  mantle,  who,  it  was  said,  had  come  from  a  for- 
eign land.  But  she  soon  ceased  to  be  a  stranger 
to  the  Breton-folk;  she  was  so  kind  to  everybody, 
and  so  anxious  to  win  all  hearts;  as  for  her 
own,  the  Bretons  had  conquered  it  the  very 
first  day. 

"Yes,"  it  pleased  her  to  say,  "I  have  literally 

given  myself  to  Brittany;  and  how  graciously  and 
delicately  has  Brittany  welcomed  the  gift  of  my- 
self to  her!  You  know  how  many  times  I  have 
gone  through  the  country  year  after  year,  discover- 
ing a  little  more  each  time,  and  consequently  lov- 
ing it  more  and  more!  Well!  not  once,  do  you 
understand,  have  I  been  asked :  who  I  am,  whence 
I  come,  what  I  want.    Oh!  the  wonderful  discre- 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

tion  of  this  race,  the  most  aristocratic  of  all  races, 
in  the  purest  acceptation  of  the  word!  They 
watched  me  come  and  go  without  any  comments, 
as  if  the  event  was  the  most  natural  thing  to  do.  I 
came:  "Bon)our,  Madame!"  I  went:  "Bonsoir, 
Madame!"  Never  a  look  of  astonishment,  never  a 
question;  while  I  was  constantly  asking  them  ques- 
tions, and  the  greatest  variety,  too;  I  was  always  in 
quest  of  some  information.  I  wanted  to  know  all 
about  the  Breton  people  and  Breton  things;  but, 
with  all  that,  nobody  took  it  amiss;  nobody  grew 
angry;  on  the  contrary,  it  always  stirred  up  a 
rivalry  among  them  as  to  who  could  give  the  most 
information,  and  be  the  first  to  make  it  known. 
These  men  and  women  of  the  people  instinctively 
felt  that,  if  I  were  eager  to  know  the  detailed  his- 
tory of  their  past  and  present,  it  was  not  through 
the  idle  curiosity  of  a  mere  tourist,  but  through  the 
inspiration  of  a  more  noble  desire  to  penetrate 
deeply  into  their  souls  so  as  to  make  them  more 
intimately  mine.  Ah!  what  marvelous  spiritual 
riches  they  have  permitted  me  to  accumulate  in 
that  way!  How  can  I  ever  repay  them!  They 
have  given  me  a  hundred-fold  more  than  I  have 
ever  given  them;  but  the  one  to  whom  I  owe  the 
most,  the  human  creature  who  has  disseminated 
the  most  poetry  and  novelty  into  my  life  is,  as  you 
may  divine,  Marguerite  Philippe — old  Marc'- 
harit.  .  .  ." 

Marc'harit  Phulup!    How  can  I  describe  her 


INTRODUCTION  xiif 

in  a  few  lines!  Try  to  bring  before  your  mind  a 
poor  Breton  peasant  with  one  arm  maimed.  She 
had  less  than  ordinary  intelligence,  was  completely 
lacking  in  education,  not  knowing  how  either  to 
read  or  write,  but  for  that  very  reason,  perhaps, 
gifted  with  a  wonderful  memory.  It  was  suf- 
ficient to  sing  a  song  before  her  only  once,  and  she 
would  retain  both  the  air  and  the  words.  Now  in 
Brittany  they  sing  a  great  deal;  during  the  day,  in 
the  open  air  in  the  fields;  in  the  evening,  around 
the  fireside  at  the  farms;  and,  as  Marc'harit  was 
incapable  of  working — that  is,  of  using  her  hands 
to  work — she  earned  her  living,  moving  about 
from  place  to  place,  making  pilgrimages  from 
chapel  to  chapel  for  the  sick  who  had  need  of  the 
intercession  of  some  saint  to  cure  them  (un  saint- 
guerisseur)  who  was  supposed  to  cure  this  or  that 
malady.  The  occasions  were  not  wanting,  as  she 
fulfilled  her  various  missions  to  these  chapels,  to 
increase  her  repertoire  of  ballads.  And  so  she 
finally  arrived  at  the  point  of  storing  up  in  her 
memory  a  prodigious  number  of  gwerziou  and 
soniou  (the  two  types  of  poetry  the  most  common 
and  popular  among  the  Breton-folk) .  She  boasted 
of  being  able  to  sing  unceasingly  for  three  months 
without  repeating  a  single  song.  Perhaps  she  may 
have  exaggerated  a  little;  but  it  is  nevertheless 
quite  true  that  she  had  a  great  genius  for  singing 
these  ballads — the  spirit  of  song  dwelt  within  her 
soul. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

I  have  already  related  under  what  circumstances 
Mrs.  Mosher  heard  her  the  first  time  at  Guingamp. 
That  same  evening,  she  asked  Marc'harit  to  go  to 
the  hotel  and  dine  with  her,  and  afterwards  to  sing 
for  her  alone  in  her  room.  From  that  moment,  a 
strong,  touching  friendship  sprang  up  between 
the  poor  peasant  woman  of  Tregor  and  the  Ameri- 
can lady;  in  one  of  them  it  took  the  form  of 
simple  adoration,  in  which,  however,  there  was  no 
feeling  of  servility;  in  the  other  a  complex  senti- 
ment— a  mingling  of  protective  tenderness  and  sin- 
cere admiration  with  a  deep  sense  of  gratitude. 

"In  Marc'harit,"  said  Mrs.  Mosher  to  me, 
"I  had  the  impression  that  I  had  reached,  not  only 
the  spirit  of  Brittany,  but  I  even  went  so  far  as 
the  very  quintessence  of  this  spirit  drawn  from  its 
source,  in  all  its  original  freshness,  in  all  its  prim- 
itive purity.  It  was  as  if  the  entire  country,  the 
sky,  the  earth,  the  sea  had  started  to  sing  in  order 
to  breathe  into  me  the  music  from  the  depths  of 
its  soul,  that  mysterious  and  magic  symphony  that 
the  tourists  and  the  profane  pass  by,  and  will  al- 
ways pass  by  without  hearing.  .  .  .  Dear,  dear 
Marc'harit!  .  .  .  But  what  a  strange  relation  be- 
tween the  American  that  I  am,  and  the  Breton 
that  she  was !  There  was  no  possible  bond  between 
us  except  the  invisible  one  of  the  heart.  Even  the 
French  I  knew  did  not  help  me  to  communi- 
cate with  her,  as  she  knew,  and  only  understood, 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

Breton.  No  means,  consequently,  of  intercourse 
through  language.  And  yet,  we  lived  in- 
timately together  for  days,  weeks.  We  visited  I 
don't  know  how  many  shrines.  Seated  side  by 
side  in  one  of  your  Breton  vehicles,  not  any  too 
comfortable,  we  jolted  along,  silently,  to  all  ap- 
pearances; but,  within  us,  there  was  a  long  conver- 
sation going  on  the  whole  time.  How  often  we 
have  conversed  without  saying  a  word  to  each 
other!  How  eloquent  was  this  silence!  When 
Marc'harit  felt  that  it  had  lasted  long  enough,  she 
would  turn  toward  me,  smiling  both  with  her  lips 
and  eyes;  then,  with  head  erect,  looking  fixedly 
into  the  distant  space,  she  would  suddenly  begin  to 
intone  a  ballad.  And,  for  one  or  two  hours,  she 
would  sing  and  sing.  It  appeared  as  though  the 
musical  spirit  of  the  old  Breton  harpers,  her  an- 
cestors, had  brusquely  awakened  in  her,  and  had 
taken  possession  of  her  very  soul.  She  seemed  to 
be  made  mad  by  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  whose 
notes,  growing  gradually  wilder  and  wilder,  rang 
out  long  and  loud  through  the  solitude  of  the  coun- 
try in  which  we  were  travelling.  The  meaning  of 
the  Breton  words  escaped  me,  yet  there  was  some- 
thing strangely  sympathetic  in  the  mystery  of  their 
unknown  syllables;  the  melody,  the  rhythm,  the 
accent,  all  were  apparently  familiar  to  my  ears; 
they  evoked  in  me  an  indefinable  memory  of  a  life 
anterior  to  this,  in  very  ancient  days,  where  melo- 
dies like  these  had  haunted  my  dreams.     And  I 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

cannot  possibly  give  an  idea  of  how  much  I  was 
inspired  by  it;  I  had  the  feeling  while  listening  to 
Marc'harit's  song,  that  I  was  transported  back  to 
my  veritable  origin;  I  had  the  consciousness,  as  if 
through  a  miracle,  of  an  immemorial,  vertiginous 
past.  What  an  infinite  power  of  suggestion  in  those 
old,  Celtic  chants!  I  do  not  believe  there  can  be 
found  elsewhere  any  that  are  more  touching  or 
beautiful.  I  have  hoarded  up  a  number  of  them 
to  rest  me  in  my  old  age;  they  have  supernatural 
virtues.  Thanks  to  these  songs,  I  can  escape,  when 
I  choose,  from  the  ugly  features  of  New  York;  for 
I  have  only  to  hum  one  of  these  tunes  to  be  taken 
back  to  Brittany, — to  the  land  that  I  love.*  And 
now  you  can  understand,  in  some  measure,  what 
my  debt  is  to  the  poor  Armorican  peasant  woman, 
who,  in  her  poverty,  richer  than  all  our  million- 
aires put  together,  has  left  me  this  splendid  leg- 
acy." 

Among  the  cultivated  Bretons  themselves,  I 
know  of  no  one  who  has  gone  farther  than  Mrs. 
Mosher  in  the  comprehension  of  the  soul  of  the 
Breton  people.  For  proof  of  this  assertion,  I  need 
only  tell  of  a  little  episode  in  her  relations  with 
Marc'harit,  to  which  a  brief  allusion  is  given  by 
her  in  the  course  of  this  book.  You  have  seen  what 
unreserved    admiration    Mrs.    Mosher   has    pro- 


*  Mrs.  Mosher  was  by  natural   endowment  and  by  education  a 
thorough  musician. 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

fessed  for  the  exceptional  gift  of  her  companion 
in  many  pilgrimages.  She  only  saw  one  imper- 
fection in  Marc'harit  which  shocked  her  a  little; 
and  she  proposed  to  try  and  remedy  the  matter. 
Although  Marc'harit  had  so  many  devotions  to 
make,  still  she  did  not  pay  enough  attention  to 
physical  cleanliness;  it  was  a  part  of  her  employ- 
ment to  make  innumerable  prayers  at  all  of  the, 
sacred  fountains  of  her  country,  yet  it  did  not  occur 
to  her  to  keep  her  hands  long  enough  in  the  water 
to  clean  them.  Mrs.  Mosher  thought  that  perhaps 
it  was  because  she  had  never  known  the  use  of 
soap.  And  so  one  morning  she  asked  the  maid  at 
the  hotel  to  buy  a  cake  of  soap  at  a  neighbouring 
bazaar  and  give  it  to  Marc'harit  as  a  present  from 
her. 

"Well,  what  did  she  say?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Mosher  of  the  maid  when  told  that  the  errand  had 
been  done. 

"Oh!  Madame,  you  should  have  heard  her  ex- 
clamation of  delight  when  I  gave  her,  with  your 
compliments,  the  pretty  rose-coloured  cake  of  soap 
wrapped  in  silver  paper.  She  said  that  she  was 
never  so  happy  in  all  her  life." 

As  the  hour  for  dinner  approached,  Mrs. 
Mosher  expected  to  see  Marc'harit  appear  with 
immaculately  clean  hands.  Alas!  they  were,  if 
possible,  more  doubtful  than  the  day  before.  The 
attempt  had  been  unsuccessful.  The  next  few  days 
Marc'harit  promenaded  around  triumphantly  with 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

the  piece  of  soap  in  her  apron  pocket,  but  not  once 
did  the  idea  come  into  her  mind  to  make  use  of  it. 
And,  of  course,  Mrs.  Mosher  took  great  care  not 
to  indicate  to  her  more  explicitly  to  what  use  she 
had  destined  the  present;  she  was  too  much  afraid 
of  wounding  the  Breton  sensitiveness  of  her  friend ; 
and  so,  perforce,  she  was  obliged  to  return  to  the 
United  States  without  obtaining  the  hygienic  re- 
sult she  so  much  desired. 

The  following  year,  .upon  her  return  to  Brit- 
tany, she  invited  me  to  go  with  her  to  pay  a  visit 
to  Marc'harit.  Upon  a  beautiful  autumnal  after- 
noon in  August,  we  went  through  the  land  of  Tre- 
gor,  heavy-laden  with  the  ripe,  yellow  wheat,  tak- 
ing the  road  to  the  hamlet  of  Saint  Idunet  where 
Marc'harit's  thatched  cottage  stood  in  the  midst 
of  a  small  garden.  As  soon  as  she  caught  sight  of 
us  in  the  distance,  she  ran  to  meet  us,  escorted  by 
her  pet  cat,  who,  up  to  the  moment  of  our  arrival, 
had  been  purring  peacefully  in  the  sun  on  the  door- 
step by  her  side.  With  great  effusion,  she  took 
hold  of  Mrs.  Mosher's  arm  and  led  her  into  the 
dark  interior  of  the  room,  up  to  the  chimney-place 
with  grey  ashes  upon  its  hearthstone;  and  then,  she 
pointed  to  the  chimney  shelf  (the  family  altar 
found  in  all  Breton  homes)  which  was  about  even 
with  our  heads,  and  said: 

"Sellet,  Itron,  aze  man/"     (See,  Madame,  it  is 
there!) 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

Yes,  in  very  fact,  it  was  there  between  a  porce- 
lain statuette  of  Notre  Dame  de  Bon  Secours  and 
a  crucifix  of  box-wood  mounted  with  copper  nails; 
it  was  there  intact,  religiously  exposed  under  a 
glass  globe,  the  pretty  little  cake  of  rose-coloured 
soap  wrapped  with  silver  paper;  and  Marguerite 
fairly  beamed  with  joy  as  she  showed  it  to  us.  I 
looked  at  Mrs.  Mosher;  she  was  too  much  moved 
to  articulate  a  word;  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"Ah!  yes,"  she  finally  said  to  me,  "this  is  indeed 
your  race — the  indomitable  creator  of  idealism! 
You  make  it  out  of  nothing;  this  woman  of  the 
people  has  turned  a  commonplace  article  of  the 
toilet  into  a  symbol — a  relic.  She  has  transformed 
a  poor,  casual,  trivial  thing  into  a  thing  of  the  soul, 
— a  thing  of  eternity." 

What  Breton,  may  I  ask,  would  have  interpreted 
more  surely,  expressed  in  more  happy  terms,  the 
very  essence  itself  of  Breton  psychology?  .  .  . 
This  was  to  be  the  last  visit  ever  made  to  Mar- 
guerite. A  short  time  afterward,  she  rendered  to 
God  a  soul  as  pure  and  white  as  her  hands  were  sul- 
lied; she  died  as  she  had  lived,  in  simple  faith. 
The  Cure  of  Pluzumet,  the  pastor  of  her  parish, 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Mosher  that  up  to  the  last  supreme 
moment  she  did  not  cease  to  whisper  in  her  pray- 
ers the  name  of  her  benefactress  across  the  sea. 
Mrs.  Mosher,  herself,  has  told  how  a  monument 
to  Marc'harit's  memory  was  erected  with  a 
fund  collected  by  Mrs.   Mosher.     Through  her 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

thoughtful  kindness,  Brittany  will  always  know 
where  to  kneel  at  the  sepulchre  of  the  most  fer- 
vent, the  most  humble  of  her  national  ballad- 
singers. 

But  how  many  other  services  Mrs.  Mosher  has 
rendered  to  her  adopted  country!  Had  it  not  been 
for  her,  it  is  probable  that  one  of  its  most  note- 
worthy deeds — that  of  an  heroic  sailor  who  saved 
a  whole  fleet  of  ships — would  have  been  doomed  to 
oblivion.  Browning,  it  is  true,  has  celebrated  this 
noble  deed,  but  who  reads  Browning  in  Brittany? 
Mrs.  Mosher,  who  knew  her  Browning  by  heart, 
never  ceased  to  make  a  crusade  for  this  great  un- 
known Breton,  Herve  Riel,  until  the  day  she  ob- 
tained recognition  of  his  bravery  from  the  negli- 
gent citizens  of  his  native  town — a  recognition 
which  had  been  deferred  for  two  centuries.  It 
was  she  who,  with  the  aid  of  M.  Etienne  Port, 
resuscitated  the  bold  Croisic  pilot,  the  valiant  hus- 
band of  la  belle  Aurore.  Since  then,  his  bronze 
statue  stands  upon  the  quay  of  his  native  town,  his 
face  ever  turned  toward  the  sea  whose  waves — and 
the  lines  of  an  English  poet — were  for  a  long  time 
the  only  things  that  perpetuated  the  memory  of 
his  exploit.  His  zealous  American  admirer  had 
the  satisfaction  of  being  present  at  the  inaugural 
ceremonies  of  the  statue  erected  in  his  honor.  A 
year  later,  war  was  declared;  Mrs.  Mosher  was 
never  to  see  Brittany  again. 

During  the  bloody  struggle  of  the  late  World 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

War,  and  even  up  to  the  hour  of  her  death,  which 
came,  alas!  before  she  could  rejoice  at  the  dawn  of 
peace,  her  heart  was  always  with  her  Bretons. 
Constantly  she  followed  them  in  thought;  on  land, 
on  sea,  wherever  their  duty  to  France  called  them 
— their  duty  to  the  world;  wherever  they  fought 
and  fell  for  the  salvation  of  the  civilization  of  the 
soul,  for  which  the  Celts  have  ever  been  the  true 
champions. 

It  chanced  that  I  was  sent  on  a  mission  to  the 
United  States  in  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1917; 
and,  at  the  beginning  of  191 8,  I  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  staying  several  weeks  in  New  York.  Mrs. 
Mosher  was  then  living  with  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Wood. 

"Come  as  often  as  you  have  a  moment  to  spare," 
she  said;  and  I  arranged  to  go  to  see  her  nearly 
every  afternoon;  she  was  then  eighty  years  old. 
Did  she  have  a  presentiment  then  that  the  conver- 
sations of  this  winter  would  be  the  last  that  we 
would  ever  have  together?  I  had,  at  all  events,  the 
impression  that  she  purposely  filled  them  with 
questions  and  confidences,  as  if  to  leave  me  as  much 
as  possible  of  herself,  and  to  gain  as  much  as  she 
could  from  my  presence.  There  was  a  secret 
solemnity  about  these  hours  passed  together,  and  in 
spite  of  ourselves  our  words  took  a  tone  so  grave 
that  the  effects  of  them  were  prolonged  mysteri- 
ously, long  after  we  had  separated.  Oh !  those  talks 
on  Park  Avenue — those  talks  so  full  of  deep  feel- 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

ing,  that  I  had  with  the  most  intelligent  and  hos- 
pitable of  friends!  They  will  be  present  to  my 
mind  as  long  as  I  live. 

I  usually  found  Mrs.  Mosher  knitting  socks  for 
the  soldiers;  when  I  left  New  York  she  was  knit- 
ting the  three  hundred  and  twenty-sixth  pair.  Of 
course  it  was  natural  that  the  first  subject  we  dis- 
cussed was  the  war;  then,  by  some  sudden  break  in 
the  conversation  we  escaped  into  the  past.  Mrs. 
Mosher  took  me  back  with  her  over  the  years  of 
her  life;  introduced  me  into  the  sanctuary  of  her 
memory;  evoked  the  pleasures  of  her  youth,  her 
childhood.  She  told  me  of  the  liberal  education 
she  had  received  in  her  native  town  of  Warsaw; 
how  she  rode  horseback;  how  she  learned  to  shoot 
in  company  with  four  or  five  brothers;  how,  under 
the  guidance  of  her  father,  one  of  the  judges  of  the 
county,  she  became  fond  of  nature,  music  and 
books;  how,  one  evening,  when  she  was  playing  the 
piano,  she  suddenly  discovered  that  she  had,  at  the 
window,  a  singularly  attentive  listener  in  the  per- 
son of  a  young  girl  of  her  own  age,  who  chanced  to 
be  none  other  than  Adelina  Patti;  how — but  I  for- 
get myself;  it  is  my  mission  to  speak  of  Mrs. 
Mosher  only  in  regard  to  her  indissoluble  connec- 
tion with  Brittany. 

One  day  in  February,  as  I  crossed  the  threshold 
of  her  door,  she  handed  me  a  copy  of  the  North 
American  Review,  in  which  she  had  just  read  a 
touching  incident  about  a  young  Breton  of  He  et 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

Pilaine,  by  the  name  of  Louis  Malivet,  then  con- 
valescing in  the  American  Hospital  at  Neuilly, 
after  having  a  leg  and  arm  cut  off.  The  nurse,  who 
had  him  in  charge,  did  not  have  enough  words  to 
express  her  praise  of  his  resignation,  his  serenity, 
his  gentleness,  the  unique  quality  of  his  "Breton 
smile." 

"I  want  to  do  something  for  Louis  Malivet,"  she 
said. 

And  she  immediately  began  a  correspondence 
with  him  in  order  to  find  out  in  what  way  she  could 
be  the  most  useful.  He  did  not  have  extrava- 
gant wishes,  this  poor  mutilated  soldier  of  the  war! 
His  whole  ambition,  once  out  of  the  hospital,  was 
to  have  the  means  of  taking  up  again  his  primary 
studies  (he  was  forced  to  leave  them  when  he  was 
thirteen  years  old  to  go  and  work  in  the  field)  and 
to  prepare  for  his  examinations  as  a  teacher. 
Needless  to  say  that  Mrs.  Mosher  raised  the 
necessary  money,  and  now,  over  there,  at  lie  et 
Vilaine,  in  Brittany,  there  is  a  school-master  who 
blesses  her  memory.  When  he  wrote  to  thank  her, 
she  replied :  "The  only  thing  that  I  ask  for  in  re- 
turn, is  to  teach  your  pupils  to  love  Brittany." 

How  she,  herself,  loved  the  Breton-folk!  She 
loved  them  with  her  whole  heart  and  soul;  with  a 
love  complete  and  absolute,  even  for  their  defects 
and  weaknesses.  Upon  more  than  one  occasion, 
she  could  have  wished  that  the  Bretons  were  less 
Celtic;  that  is  to  say,  less  divided  among  them- 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

selves;  and  that  they  would  not  waste  their  time 
and  strength  in  quarreling.  And,  no  doubt,  she 
could  have  wished  them  to  be  less  addicted  to 
drinking  strong  liquor.  But  Mrs.  Mosher  always 
expressed  herself  about  these  things  in  words  full 
of  indulgence.  Her  criticisms  were  intentionally 
veiled  in  parables.  For  instance,  she  represented 
herself  on  the  way  to  paradise,  surrounded  by  her 
dear  Bretons.  They  were  all  there — those  whom 
she  had  met  in  her  earthly  life.  But,  en  route, 
some  stopped  to  drink,  others  to  quarrel,  so  that 
by  the  t;me  she  had  reached  the  gates  of  the  Celes- 
tial Abode  she  was  alone.  Saint  Peter,  as  every- 
one knows,  is  not  gifted  with  patience.  Hardly 
had  he  opened  the  door,  when  he  made  a  motion 
as  if  to  close  it  again: 

"I  know  your  Bretons,"  he  said.  "If  I  waited 
for  them  I  should  be  here  a  week." 

"Oh!  you  surely  would  not  be  so  hard-hearted  as 
to  leave  them  outside,  good  Saint  Peter!  They  are 
such  worthy  folk.  Of  course  they  have  their  faults, 
that  cannot  be  helped,  for  God  has  made  them  that 
way;  but,  to  counterbalance  these  faults,  how  many 
qualities!  Ask  your  colleague,  good  Saint 
Yves.  .  .  ." 

And  so  she  continued  talking  as  long  as  possible 
in  order  to  gain  time;  and  .  .  .  the  conclusion  is 
that  they  finally  arrived. 

It  was  on  Wednesday,  February  13,  1918,  that 
I  had,  with  my  good  friend,  the  conversation  which 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

was  never  to  be  followed  by  another.  I  left  for 
Cincinnati  in  order  to  rejoin  my  wife,  to  whom 
Mrs.  Mosher  loved  to  apply  these  lines  of  Brown- 
ing: 

"A  spirit,  a  fire,  a  dew." 

Upon  the  point  of  leaving  behind  me  the  apart- 
ment on  Park  Avenue  a  strange  melancholy  seized 
my  heart.  Mrs.  Mosher,  whose  quick  perception 
divined,  at  once,  what  was  passing  within  me,  said : 

"Yes,  it  is  possible  that  we  may  never  meet 
again;  but,  if  this  happens,  think  of  me  without 
regret.  I  have  been  blessed  during  long,  long 
years,  and  I  will  go  on  to  the  great  and  last  ad- 
venture with  that  same  ardent  desire  with  which 
I  have  gone  forward  to  meet  all  other  experiences 
of  my  life.  It  is  just  as  if  I  were  making  ready  to 
discover  another  Brittany,  still  more  enchanting, 
if  possible, — an  eternal  Brittany.  In  truth,  I  will 
carry  it  in  me.  Do  you  remember  that  Queen  of 
England  who  declared,  when  dying,  that  if  her 
heart  was  opened  after  death  that  they  would  find 
written  there  the  name  of  Calais? — Well,  in  mine, 
if  they  open  it,  will  be  found  the  word :  Brittany." 

Dear,  dear  friend,  you  are  no  longer  here  among 
us,  but  a  part  of  you  will  always  be  found  in  these 
pages,  written  from  your  dictation  by  one  who  was 
intimately  attached  to  you. 

This  will  be  like  your  own  voice  breaking  the 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

silence  of  the  tomb  so  as  to  proclaim,  better  than 
I  have  been  able  to  do,  how  you  have  felt,  and  un- 
derstood, and  loved  Brittany.  .  .  .  You,  the  won- 
derful American  woman  that  you  were,  to  whom 
your  second  country  had  gratefully  given  the  title : 
Bretonne  Ira  Mor* 

Anatole  Le  Braz. 

New  York,  February  15,  1920. 


*  "The  Bretonne  across  the  sea.' 


THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 


The  Spell  of  Brittany 

CHAPTER  I 

AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  BRITTANY 

It  SOMETIMES  happens  that  after  much  travel 
in  guide-book  fashion  one  likes  to  search  out  some 
little  nook  of  a  continent  where,  jaunting  about 
leisurely,  browsing  in  quiet  fashion,  one  meets  peo- 
ple, objects  and  experiences  more  simple  and  naive 
than  those  encountered  in  ordinary  travel.  And 
to  find  such  a  spot,  quite  apart,  a  corner  of  the 
earth  where  the  folk-songs  are  still  sung,  the 
ancient  language  spoken,  the  old  legends  recited, 
where  the  traditional  costume  is  worn — in  short, 
where  the  people  hold  to  the  old  faith,  customs  and 
traditions — this  is  to  many  a  coveted  pleasure. 
The  Province  of  Brittany  offers  the  possibilities, 
and  to  realize  them  is  the  object  of  the  various 
journeys  we  are  to  make  together. 

And  happy  the  traveller  whose  actual  visit  has 
been  long  delayed  and  who  has  done  much  imagi- 
nary journeying  through  the  medium  of  books. 
When  at  last  he  visits  the  actual  scenes  he  will  ex- 
perience a  sense  of  familiarity  and  ownership. 

Historians  agree  that  the  record  of  Brittany  is 

3 


4  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

most  curious  and  interesting.  Many  minds  have 
served  in  the  making  of  this  record.  But  the  real 
history  of  this  as  of  many  another  corner  of  the 
earth  remains  to  be  written.  Emile  Souvestre  has 
well  expressed  it:  "Only  when  each  fragment  of  a 
country  shall  have  its  own  careful  and  studious 
historian  and  these  fragments  are  joined  together 
shall  we  have  a  really  great,  an  entire,  a  perfect 
history.  For  each  little  corner  of  every  province 
has  its  own  intimate  record;  its  story  of  a  faithful 
priest  or  brave  captain,  its  chronicle  of  the  heroic 
patience  and  humble  service  of  its  peasants,  its 
local  tradition,  its  old  song  and  legend." 

The  object  of  these  chapters  is  to  note  some  of 
these  simple  records,  to  recite  some  of  the  old  bal- 
lads, recall  the  legends  and  to  give  a  few  modest 
impressions  received  during  various  journeys 
through  this  one  little  corner  of  France — Brittany 
with  its  five  departments:  Ille-et-Vilaine,  Cotes- 
du-Nord,  Finistere,  Morbihan  and  Loire-In- 
ferieure. 

There  are  many  reasons  for  giving  Brittany  espe- 
cial place  in  one's  affections  and  for  choosing  it  as 
the  scene  of  our  little  journeys  together.  Not  that 
nature  had  been  too  prodigal  in  her  bestowals. 
One  finds  nothing  in  the  topography  of  Brittany  to 
compare  with  a  Niagara  or  a  Vesuvius.  There  are 
mountains  and  ravines  and  rivers,  with  here  and 
there  a  landscape  which  Virgil  would  not  have 
scorned.     It  is  a  land  of  quartz  and  granite  and 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  BRITTANY  5 

stretches  of  moor  and  forests  which  might  not  im- 
press the  ordinary  traveller,  but  in  these  forests 
one  hears  the  echoes  of  ancient  voices,  visions  of 
fairy  folk  lurk  in  the  mysterious  shadows  and  he- 
roes of  legends  are  in  hiding  behind  rocks  and 
ancient  trees.  One  is  made  aware  of  a  peculiar 
presence,  a  touch  of  the  marvellous,  the  mysteri- 
ous, a  magic  influence.  Enchanted  forests  and  en- 
chanted people  exist  in  Brittany.  The  fairies  still 
dance  around  the  dolmen  on  moonlit  nights,  the 
dead  walk  in  slow  procession  through  the  fields 
and  along  the  roadways  on  the  night  of  La  Tous- 
saint.  The  mystic  vervaine  of  that  early  inhabi- 
tant— the  Druid — has  not  lost  its  secret.  All  is 
fanciful  and  uncertain  as  if  enveloped  in  a  subtle 
fog.  Vagueness  and  nebulous  dreaminess  pervade 
the  atmosphere — the  vagueness  and  nebulousness 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  is  an  atmosphere  in  which 
giants  and  fairies  are  born  and  fancies  and  super- 
stitions find  congenial  soil.  Caesar  wrote  that  the 
inhabitants  of  this  old  Armorica  (the  ancient  name 
of  the  Province)  were  the  most  superstitious  of  all 
the  peoples  he  encountered.  This  influence  still 
exists  and  the  traveller  is  made  aware  of  it.  In 
our  excursions  in  this  country  it  is  well  to  leave 
our  twentieth-century  scientific  notions  behind. 
Poor  old  Brittany!  The  X-Ray  of  rationalism 
would  make  havoc  of  the  poetry  and  mystery  and 
delicate  vagueness  which  create  the  magic  atmos- 
phere of  our  Province. 


6  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Brittany  has  furnished  rich  material  for  poets, 
artists,  historians  and  archaeologists  and  many  of 
her  sons  and  daughters  have  been  numbered  among 
the  world's  great  names.  The  pens  of  Caesar,  Taci- 
tus and  Pliny  the  Elder  have  written  her  early  his- 
tory, but  a  yet  earlier  record  was  made  when, 
perhaps  thousands  of  years  before  the  Romans 
came  to  conquer  Gaul,  the  megalithic  stones  were 
placed  in  Carnac  in  Lower  Brittany  where  we  see 
them  standing  to-day.  When  and  by  whom  were 
raised  these  mysterious  monuments?  No  one  can 
tell.  The  Arthurian  legends  are  associated  with 
Brittany.  The  "Breton  Lays,"  translated  by  Ula- 
ric  of  France  from  the  Keltic  into  French  and 
dedicated  to  Henry  II  of  England  furnish  proof 
of  this. 

In  these  little  journeys  together  we  shall  visit 
the  country  of  Du  Guesclin,  a  name  which  is  to  the 
Breton  what  that  of  Washington  is  to  us,  William 
Tell  to  a  Swiss  or  Garibaldi  to  an  Italian.  We 
shall  make  our  pilgrimage  to  the  grotto  of  Abe- 
lard  and  Heloise  the  scene  of  the  love  and  tears 
of  the  unhappy  pair  after  their  flight  from  Paris. 
We  shall  visit  the  castle  of  that  odious  personage, 
Gille  de  Rais,  a  Breton  lord  of  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury whose  unhandsome  exploits  furnish  the  stuff 
of  which  one  of  the  Bluebeard  legends  was  made. 
At  Paimpol  we  are  to  meet  the  fisher  folk  of  Pierre 
Loti's  "Pecheurs  d'lslande."  At  Carhaix  we  find 
the  souvenirs  of  La  Tour  d'Auvergne,  First  Grena- 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  BRITTANY  7 

dier  of  France.  We  shall  visit  Guerande,  the  scene 
of  Balzac's  "Beatrice,"  and  Sarzeau,  birthplace  of 
Le  Sage,  where,  under  the  myrtles  and  fig  trees  of 
his  little  garden  he  wrote  his  "Gil  Bias"  and  "Tur- 
caret."  And  we  shall  often  cross  the  path  of  Anne 
of  Brittany,  twice  Queen  of  France.  At  Concar- 
neau  and  Pont  Aven  we  shall  pause  to  note  the 
mise-en-scene  of  Blanche  Willis  Howard's  story  of 
"Guenn."  We  shall  see  Carnac  where  stand  the 
rows  on  rows  of  grey  stones  as  they  stood  when 
Caesar  found  them  over  two  thousand  years  ago. 
And  the  Chateau  des  Rochers,  where  were  written 
most  of  the  "Letters"  which  have  made  the  name 
of  Madame  de  Sevigne  famous.  And  Pornic  and 
Croisic,  where,  during  those  summers  after  Mrs. 
Browning's  death,  the  Poet  sought  a  wilderness 
and  where  he  wrote  some  of  his  best-known  poems. 
And  three  places — St.  Malo,  La  Chenaie  and  Tre- 
guier  associated  with  three  great  names,  Chateau- 
briand, Felix  de  Lamennais  and  Ernest  Renan. 

All  these  and  many  more  names  are  associated 
with  this  our  Province  of  France,  and  furnish  the 
biographical  interest  of  Brittany  to  the  student  of 
this  feature  of  history — of  human  history. 


CHAPTER  II 

HISTORY  OF  BRITTANY 

BEFORE  getting  further  under  way  it  is  a  duty 
to  speak  of  the  history  of  Brittany.  Of  course,  if 
one  studies  Brittany  seriously  one  must  read  the 
six  volumes  of  La  Borderie's  History  of  Brittany, 
but  we  give  only  the  merest  outlines.  These  are 
roughly  as  follows:  Thousands  of  years  before 
Christ,  according  to  Jubainville,  the  highest  au- 
thority on  Keltic  history,  the  Kelts  left  their 
mountains  in  the  Orient  and  emigrated  westward. 
In  one  of  these  great  emigrations  they  peopled 
Gaul  and  the  Westward  Islands  (now  Great  Brit- 
ain). Fifteen  centuries  ago  Rome  came  to  con- 
quer Gaul  and  while  all  Gaul  became  Gallio-Ro- 
man  that  province  named  Armorica  (now  Brit- 
tany) was  especially  under  the  Roman  domination. 
When  the  invasion  of  Italy  by  the  barbarians  oc- 
curred and  Rome,  weakened  in  power,  lost  her 
prestige,  its  hold  on  Armorica  relaxed.  Then  came 
the  Saxons.  In  Armorica  as  in  Great  Britain  they 
killed,  pillaged,  burned.    In  Great  Britain,  after 

8 


HISTORY  OF  BRITTANY  9 

fierce  resistance,  they  established  themselves;  in 
Armorica  they  destroyed  and  then  abandoned  it. 

During  the  Roman  domination  and  after  the 
Saxon  invasion  most  of  the  Armoricans  had  fled 
to  Wales  and  Ireland,  these  countries  being  less 
under  Saxon  domination.  But  in  the  fifth  century 
when  the  Saxons  pressed  too  hard  in  the  Islands 
the  Kelts  began,  what  is  called  in  Breton  history, 
"The  Great  Emigration."  Seeking  a  new  country, 
the  nearest  shores  they  found  were  old  Armorica. 
Then  began  the  Little  Brittany,  as  they  named  it 
in  contradistinction  from  the  Great  Britain.  Dur- 
ing three  centuries  ship  followed  ship  in  one  long 
and  memorable  exodus,  bringing  men  to  defend 
and  saints  to  guide  these  pilgrims  in  the  new  coun- 
try. And  thus  the  Bretons  to-day  greet  as  brothers 
the  Kelts  of  Wales,  Ireland,  North  Scotland,  the 
Isle  of  Man  and  Cornwall. 

Brittany  has  been  theocratic  under  the  Druids, 
Roman  under  Roman  rule,  feudal  under  her 
dukes  and  counts,  a  kingdom  under  her  early  mon- 
archs  and  finally,  when  her  last  duchess,  Anne  of 
Brittany,  became  Queen  of  France,  Brittany  be- 
came a  Province  of  that  country,  thus  varying 
politically  from  the  three  thousand  years  before 
Julius  Caesar  came  to  conquer  Gaul,  where  he 
found  the  Druids  in  possession,  to  the  French 
Revolution. 

Caesar  was  her  first  historian  and,  as  poets  were 
among  her  early  annalists,  many  fables  are  mingled 


io  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

with  the  history  of  Brittany.  One  genealogist 
under  Greek  influence  makes  Hercules  coming 
from  Africa,  pass  through  Gaul  where  he  mar- 
ried the  nymph  Kelto,  thus  giving  birth  to  the 
Kelts.  Another  under  Latin  influence  makes  Brit- 
tany begin  with  the  inevitable  TEneas.  Some 
Breton  legends  go  so  far  back  as  Noah,  affirming 
that  he  landed  from  the  ark  on  the  river  Loire. 
Another  legend  dates  from  Paradise,  holding  that 
Eve  spoke  the  Breton  language.  Upon  these  we 
must  not  insist,  it  being  quite  sufficient  to  know  that 
the  Keltic  language  was  used  by  the  inhabitants  of 
our  Province  when  Caesar  invaded  Gaul.  Without 
going  back  to  Moses  it  is  shown  that  the  Breton 
race  allies  itself  with  the  present  through  the  Ro- 
mans, hence  in  the  study  of  the  Breton  history  one 
must  consult  the  "Commentaries"  of  the  Conqueror 
of  Gaul. 

The  Bretons  of  the  Continent  hated  the  Saxon 
with  a  hatred  equal  to  that  of  the  Bretons  of  the 
Islands  and  the  two  Brittanys  were  allies  during 
the  wars  of  that  period.  The  history  of  the  two 
fraternal  Brittanys  covers  the  period  from  the  time 
of  Caesar's  invasion  of  Gaul,  fifty-eight  years  be- 
fore Christ,  to  the  fifth  century  of  the  Christian 
era. 

The  two  Brittanys  were  the  double  centre  of 
Druidism,  the  Great  Gallic  Theocracy.  The 
domination  of  the  Romans  lasted  four  hundred 
years.     The  ancient  history  of  Brittany  may  be 


HISTORY  OF  BRITTANY  n 

said  to  have  ended  with  the  arrival  of  Clovis  and 
Christianity,  when  begins  the  mediaeval  history  of 
the  Province.  Druidism  was  the  serious  obstacle 
which  Christianity  encountered.  It  resisted  long 
in  Armorica.  But  it  finally  merged  into  the  New 
Faith  and  by  degrees  as  an  ancient  historian  has 
so  well  expressed  it:  "The  clan  and  confederation 
of  Druidism  became  Feudality;  the  pact  of  friend- 
ship of  the  Druid  became  chivalry;  the  assemblies 
of  the  leaders  became  the  parliaments  of  the 
nobles;  the  ovates  of  the  Druids  became  the  sor- 
cerers of  the  Middle  Age;  the  bards  were  changed 
into  popular  singers,  elves  and  fairies  took  the 
place  of  Druids  and  Druidesses;  the  Druidic  fetes 
of  the  lake  were  supplanted  by  fetes  of  the  foun- 
tain; the  duels  of  the  Druidic  feasts  became  the 
tournaments  of  the  knights." 

Through  all  this  changing  from  Druidism  to  the 
New  Faith,  the  Christian  fathers  were  wise  and 
patient.  Joseph  de  Maistre  names  the  early  bish- 
ops "those  Christian  Druids"  and  says  of  them: 
"They  grafted  the  Christian  Faith  upon  the  oak 
of  the  Druid — planted  the  Cross  upon  the  dolmen 
— the  new  poets  did  not  break  the  harp  of  the 
ancient  bards,  they  only  changed  a  few  of  its 
chords." 

From  the  fifth  century  until  1492,  when  Anne 
of  Brittany  became  Queen  of  France,  the  records 
of  the  various  wars  are  full  of  dramatic  and  ro- 
mantic interests.    There  were  wars  in  which  Eng- 


12  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

land  and  France  strove  to  wipe  each  other  out  of 
existence — wars  whose  annals  include  the  names  of 
Jeanne  d'Arc  and  Du  Guesclin,  in  which  Brittany, 
alas !  was  too  often  the  battlefield  of  the  two  ambi- 
tious nations. 

With  these  extremely  slight  historical  sugges- 
tions let  us  set  out  upon  our  travels. 


CHAPTER  III 

CHARTRES,  VITRE  AND  LES  ROCHERS 

By  TAKING  an  eight  o'clock  morning  train  at 
Montparnasse  station  one  may  travel  from  Paris 
to  Chartres  on  a  summer  day  and  be  able  to  stop 
off  for  a  few  hours  for  a  glimpse  of  the  wonderful 
cathedral,  still  reaching  Vitre  by  daylight — this 
being  our  first  objective  point  in  Brittany.  In- 
deed, how  can  one  pass  through  Chartres  without 
a  passing  glimpse  of  the  rare  monument  which  in- 
spired the  poem  of  James  Russell  Lowell  and  fur- 
nished material  for  Huysman's  rare  book,  "La  Ca- 
thedrale." 

While  Huysman's  book  offers  great  advantages 
in  the  study  of  the  Cathedral  technically  and  oth- 
erwise, the  traveller  is  even  more  grateful  to  the 
author  of  a  more  recently  published  book  written 
by  Henry  Adams,  entitled,  "The  Cathedrals  of 
Mont.  St.  Michel  and  Chartres."  In  this  book 
we  realize  the  Virgin  enthroned  in  the  sculptured 
shrines  of  the  Cathedral,  and  emblazoned  in  the 
jewelled  glass  of  that  marvellous  East  Window. 
As  Virgin,   Mother  of   God,   Womanhood  and 

13 


i4  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Motherhood  have  been  translated  and  defined  in  a 
rare  magnificence  of  repetition  and  detail  and  the 
people  of  the  mediaeval  period  were  silenced  in 
awe  and  adoration.  Even  the  modern  soul  can- 
not fail  to  be  impressed  by  the  splendid  embodi- 
ment of  Woman  in  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres. 

Of  course  a  serious  appreciation  of  this  glorious 
monument  requires  long  visits  and  much  study  even 
when  armed  with  the  two  books  we  have  named. 
But  a  glimpse  in  passing  is  worth  while  as  a  be- 
ginning and  the  three  hours  spent  in  Chartres  on 
our  journey  through  Brittany  serve  to  inspire  and 
prepare  for  future  experiences.  Before  taking  our 
train  for  Vitre  we  lunch  in  the  open  at  one  of  the 
little  cafes  of  the  town  and  thus  take  an  early 
afternoon  train. 

It  is  sunset  when  our  train  arrives  at  Vitre. 
The  hour  when  the  walls  and  towers  of  this  fine 
old  feudal  town,  golden  in  the  evening  glow,  are 
seen  at  their  finest. 

In  all  France  there  remain  but  three  mediaeval 
towns  which  have  preserved  their  feudal  aspect — 
Avignon  in  the  South  of  France,  for  many  years 
the  Papal  Seat — Guerande  and  Vitre,  both  in  Brit- 
tany. 

There  is  a  certain  little  inn  near  the  station 
called  the  "Hotel  des  Voyageurs,"  reasonably  com- 
fortable. It  has  a  rival  over  the  way  which 
bears  the  high-sounding  title  of  "The  Steward  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne"  writ  large  upon  its  front. 


CHARTRES,  VITRE  AND  LES  ROCHERS      15 

Whether  the  virtues  of  this  personage  of  two  cen- 
turies ago  have  been  transmitted  to  his  descend- 
ants we  cannot  say. 

Vitre  has  but  one  church — old  and  interesting, 
but  not  important.  It  was  formerly  a  priory.  The 
facade  is  formed  of  seven  gables.  An  exterior 
pulpit  of  the  fourteenth  century  of  pure  Gothic 
style,  placed  there,  tradition  has  it,  in  order  to 
oppose  the  public  sermons  of  the  Calvinists  uttered 
from  an  exterior  pulpit  of  the  Chateau  near  by,  is 
worth  noting,  it  being  one  of  the  finest  examples  of 
its  kind  of  which  there  are  very  few  in  existence. 
The  Colignys  introduced  Calvinism  into  Vitre  and 
during  the  wars  of  the  League  the  castle  served  as 
one  of  the  armories  of  the  Huguenots. 

We  stroll  about  the  narrow  streets.  Ancient 
houses  built  upon  pillared  galleries,  each  story 
projecting  beyond  the  one  below,  almost  meeting  at 
the  summit  its  neighbour  over  the  way,  making  a 
pell-mell  of  dormer-windows,  sculptured  cornices 
and  chimneypots — such  are  numerous  in  medieval 
Vitre.  And  there  are  several  interesting  antiquity 
shops — an  attractive  feature  to  many  of  us! 

But  Vitre,  interesting  in  itself,  is  not  the  chief 
object  of  this  visit,  which  is  to  see  the  chateau  of 
Les  Rochers,  the  home  of  Madame  de  Sevigne, 
and  next  morning  we  secure  a  good  horse,  car- 
riage and  driver  for  the  modest  sum  of  six  francs 
and  make  the  excursion  thither  three  miles  from 
Vitre. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE' 

ALTHOUGH  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  born  in 
Paris  (you  know  the  little  house  in  the  Place  des 
Vosges),  most  of  her  short  married  life  and  her 
long  widowhood  were  passed  at  the  Chateau  Les 
Rochers.  It  is  chiefly  with  her  associations  with 
Brittany  that  we  have  to  do.  Through  the  vivid 
records  in  the  "Letters"  we  see  her  making  the 
journeys  from  Paris  to  Vitre,  an  affair  of  eight  or 
nine  days  and  thus  described:  "It  was  a  veritable 
cavalcade,"  she  writes,  "two  open  carriages,  seven 
carriage  horses,  two  men  on  horseback  and  upon  a 
pack-horse  the  bed  is  carried  to  serve  at  the  inns 
en  route."  She  took  measures  against  dullness  by 
choosing  agreeable  friends  for  fellow  travellers 
and  she  carried  along  the  favorite  books.  They 
talked;  they  read  Racine  and  Corneille  and  Nic- 
ole; they  enjoyed  the  scenery.  The  good  uncle,  the 
"bien  bon"  of  the  "Letters"  always  made  one  of 
the  party  and  often  her  son  Charles,  who  appears 
to  have  been  a  most  agreeable  companion. 

16 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE  17 

And  we  note  other  journeys — those  from  Vitr6 
back  to  Paris  where  at  the  court  of  Louis  XIV  at 
Versailles  a  welcome  always  awaited  this  clever 
and  charming  woman.  And  we  accompany  her  on 
the  occasional  visits  to  her  daughter  in  Provence 
and  to  the  waters  of  Vichy  for  her  recurrent  rheu- 
matism. Many  an  author  is  seen  at  his  best  in  his 
travel  notes;  our  chatelaine  of  Les  Rochers  is  no 
exception.  When  she  travels  in  these  "Letters," 
the  reader  vividly  accompanies  her. 

The  late  Gaston  Boissier  of  the  College  de 
France  in  his  delightful  sketch  of  the  famous  let- 
ter-writer says:  "It  is  doubtless  true  of  the  'Let- 
ters' of  Madame  de  Sevigne  that  the  most 
interesting  thing  in  them  is  Herself."  She  wrote 
with  frankness.  Most  of  her  secrets  she  let  slip 
sooner  or  later  from  the  point  of  her  pen.  Her 
gossip  charms,  her  frivolities  enchant,  her  airy 
nothings  passed  around  among  the  court  circle  at 
Versailles  crystallized  into  bon  mots  and  were  held 
worthy  to  be  adopted  and  repeated  by  the  great 
Louis  himself. 

When  the  brilliant  Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal 
married  the  flippant  Chevalier  de  Sevigne,  of  a 
Breton  family  allied  to  the  Du  Guesclins  and  Clis- 
sons,  he  was  possessed  of  more  estates  than  money. 
We  learn  that  he  esteemed  but  did  not  love  his 
wife  and  that  she  loved  but  did  not  esteem  him, 
most  people  agreeing  with  her  in  respect  to  the 
latter.     We   find   the   husband   squandering  his 


18  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

dowry  in  gambling.  We  see  him  at  the  feet  of 
Ninon  de  l'Enclos  as  was  his  father  before  and  his 
son  after  him.  For  a  quarter  of  a  century  later 
in  a  letter  to  her  daughter  dated  1671  the  mother 
writes:  "Your  brother  is  under  the  spell  of  Ninon. 
She  ruined  his  father."  When  a  duel  fought  over 
a  disreputable  love  affair  takes  the  Chevalier  off 
we  feel  little  regret.  During  the  following  years 
she  is  at  Les  Rochers  with  her  two  children  prac- 
tising economies  to  repair  the  deficiencies  caused 
by  the  follies  of  the  young  husband. 

From  time  to  time  she  flits  to  Paris  where  in 
1650  she  made  re-entry  into  society.  And  now  we 
associate  her  with  that  famous  Hotel  de  Carnava- 
let,  still  redolent  with  associations  and  souvenirs 
of  this  witty  woman.  And  we  note  the  more  se- 
rious turn  in  her  tastes  for  we  find  her  at  the  Hotel 
Rambouillet,  a  Salon  then  at  its  highest  point  of 
distinction,  where  she  met  Racine,  Corneille, 
Voiture,  La  Fontaine,  Moliere  and  the  two  tutors 
of  her  girlhood,  Chapelain  and  Menage.  Among 
all  these  we  see  her  the  precieuse  she  indeed  was, 
but  with  a  preciosity  free  from  the  extravagancies 
of  her  pedantic  tutors  who  thereby  suffered  ridi- 
cule in  the  comedy  of  Moliere:  "Les  Precieuse 
Ridicules." 

We  note  that  in  the  days  of  the  Fronde,  which 
brought  about  great  changes  in  her  circle,  she  plays 
her  role  of  Frondeuse  gaily  and  with  her  accus- 
tomed success. 


MADAME    DE    SfiVIGNfi 

After  the  portrait  by  Mignard  which  still  hangs  in  her  bedroom 

at  Les  Rochers,  Vitre 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE  19 

Through  these  "Letters"  we  meet  her  at  the 
house  of  the  Scarrons.  And  at  the  La  Fayette's 
where  she  with  her  hostess  and  Rochefoucauld 
made  a  frequent  and  admirable  trio.  She  is  at  the 
Saturdays  of  Madame  Scudery  and  often  at  the 
theatre.  We  note  the  episodes,  so-called  love  af- 
fairs, in  which  the  great  Turenne  and  the  Comte 
de  Lude  failed  to  win  her  hand.  And  the  Prince 
de  Conti  and  Fouquet  were  in  the  procession.  But 
she  turns  all  her  lovers  into  staunch  friends. 

Then  she  marries  her  daughter,  "the  prettiest 
girl  in  France"  (according  to  the  mother),  to  a 
Count  of  Provence,  and  we  read  the  wonderful 
mother  letters  that  follow. 

But  the  most  attractive  experiences  of  her  life 
are  associated  with  Brittany.  Through  the  "Let- 
ters" we  follow  her  day  by  day  at  Les  Rochers. 
We  watch  her  planting  the  avenues  of  trees 
through  which  we  walk  to-day.  On  October  28, 
1671,  she  writes  to  her  daughter:  "I  don't  know 
what  you  have  done  this  morning,  but  as  for  my- 
self I  have  been  half  knee  deep  in  the  dew  taking 
measurements.  I  am  laying  out  winding  avenues 
all  around  the  park  which  will  be  very  beautiful. 
If  my  son  loves  the  woods  and  walking  he  will 
bless  my  memory."  It  is  to  be  feared  that  the 
rather  flippant  Charles  failed  in  this  respect,  but 
her  memory  is  blessed  by  the  visitor  who  rambles 
through  these  lovely  avenues  to-day. 

And  she  reads.     She  reads  all  sorts  of  books, 


20  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

grave  and  gay — Tasso  in  his  own  language,  and 
Roman  History  (Plutarch  and  Josephus)  and 
Nicole's  "Treaty  on  Morals."  Oh,  how  often  she 
seems  to  be  reading  that  dull  book!  And  Pascal 
and  Fenelon  and  others  of  the  Port-Royalist  group, 
and  Virgil  ("in  all  the  majesty  of  the  Latin,"  she 
writes),  although  it  has  been  said  of  her  Latin 
that  it  went  limpingly  sometimes.  And  with  so 
much  that  is  serious  we  welcome  the  arrival  of 
the  son  who  promptly  infuses  somewhat  of  gaiety 
into  the  group.  For  on  these  visits  we  catch  the 
laugh  over  chapters  of  "Rabelais"  and  the  "Come- 
dies of  Moliere,"  of  which  the  mother  writes: 
"My  son  reads  us  many  a  bagatelle  of  which  he  is 
prince — comedies  which  he  acts  like  Moliere  him- 
self, poems  and  novels.  He  is  most  witty  and 
amusing.  He  has  kept  us  from  taking  up  any 
serious  reading  as  we  had  intended.  When  he 
leaves  we  shall  resume  our  Nicole."  And  again: 
"Charles  reads  us  chapters  of  'Rabelais'  enough 
to  make  us  die  of  laughter." 

We  follow  her  to  Vitre  to  the  assembling  of  the 
Breton  Parliament  when  she  tells  us:  "The  din- 
ners are  so  magnificent  that  one  dies  of  hunger," 
and  she  flits  back  to  Les  Rochers  whence  she 
writes:  "I  need  to  sleep,  to  eat,  to  refresh  myself, 
to  be  silent."  And  again :  "At  last,  my  daughter, 
I  have  come  back  to  my  'bien  bonf  my  masons  and 
carpenters,  and  I  am  transported  with  joy."  And 
she  rejoices  like  any  child  over  the  luxury  of  eat- 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE  21 

ing  the  huge  slices  of  Breton  bread  and  butter. 
"How  much  better  to  be  here  all  alone  than  in  the 
fracas  of  Vitre,"  she  writes.  One  smiles  at  the 
term  "fracas"  applied  to  the  dear,  dead,  old  Vitre 
that  one  finds  to-day. 

From  time  to  time  occur  the  visits  of  the  daugh- 
ter— visits  always  shadowed  with  clouds  of  mis- 
understanding, to  be  followed — once  separated — 
by  repentances  and  self-reproaches  on  the  part  of 
the  daughter,  who  seems  to  have  been  a  person  of 
strong  character  and  little  tenderness. 

And  we  follow  our  chatelaine  in  many  of  those 
lonely  walks  through  the  avenues  of  the  park — 
"All  alone  tete-a-tete,"  she  puts  it  so  characteris- 
tically. The  "Letters"  admit  the  reader  to  a  cer- 
tain intimacy.  Indeed  the  visitor  of  Les  Rochers 
to-day  has  the  impression  of  having  known  the 
place  before. 

Within  the  chateau  we  see  the  bedroom  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne,  in  which  her  portrait  hangs 
— that  painted  by  Mignard,  coiffed  a  la  Grecque — 
very  decolletee — a  mantle  hanging  in  many  folds 
from  the  shoulder.  And  the  canopied  bed,  the 
book  of  accounts  with  the  faithful  gardener  Pilois, 
which  we  find  more  interesting  than  the  transcrip- 
tion of  Virgil  in  her  own  handwriting,  the  powder 
puff,  brushes  and  other  toilet  articles — all  impart 
an  intimate  air  to  the  apartment. 

We  find  the  garden  as  prim  as  when  first  laid 
out  after  the  plans  of  Le  Notre  and  the  veritable 


22  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

orange  trees  of  two  centuries  ago  stand  in  the  orig- 
inal plan.  The  little  chapel  is  quite  intact  with  its 
altar,  pictures,  sofas,  chairs  and  other  furnishings 
of  the  period.  This  is  the  chapel  so  often  men- 
tioned in  the  "Letters,"  built  by  the  "bien  bon" 
the  Abbe  de  Coulanges  whose  economies  in  the 
affairs  of  his  niece  seem  not  to  have  interfered  with 
a  little  mania  of  his  own  for  building. 

But  it  is  the  park  with  its  avenues  planted  by 
the  faithful  Pilois  under  her  own  eye  that  bring 
the  charming  proprietor  of  Les  Rochers  nearest 
us.  These  still  retain  the  names  she  gave  them: 
"The  Infinite,"  "The  Solitary,"  "The  House  of 
My  Daughter,"  etc.  The  motto  carved  over  the 
entrance  of  the  chateau  suggests  the  spirit  in  which 
the  hospitalities  of  Les  Rochers  were  offered  by 
its  mistress :  "Blessed  Liberty.  Do  whatever  you 
like." 

Through  the  "Letters"  not  only  the  chateau  but 
its  chatelaine  becomes  very  real  to  the  readers. 
We  come  to  know  how  everyday  life  went  on.  It 
was  in  a  simple  quiet  fashion  thus  described  in  a 
letter  to  her  daughter:  "We  rise  at  eight.  I  often 
spend  the  hour  until  nine  in  the  park  breathing  the 
fresh  air  of  the  forest.  At  nine  the  bell  rings  for 
mass.  After  mass  we  make  our  toilette  and  say 
good  morning  to  one  another.  We  gather  flowers; 
we  dine.  Between  dinner  and  five  we  read  and 
write.  When  I  go  to  my  avenues  I  have  my  books. 
I  plant  myself  wherever  I  like.    I  change  places 


MADAME'  DE  SEVIGNE  23 

and  I  change  books — for  one  a  book  of  devotion, 
for  another  history,  and  so  on.  At  eight  I  hear  a 
bell.  It  is  for  supper.  After  which  we  sit  in  the 
garden  listening  to  the  nightingales  and  breathing 
the  perfume  of  the  orange  blossoms." 

Setting  out  for  Paris  she  writes:  "Adieu,  my 
poor  Rochers,  adieu,  my  books,  my  prie  Dieu,  my 
dreams,  my  air  castles,  my  lonely  avenues,  and  our 
gay  little  after-suppers!  Adieu!  happy  domain  of 
the  'fa'niente.' " 

We  find  ourselves  equally  loath  to  leave  this 
lovely  spot,  attractive  not  only  through  its  own 
charms,  but  so  deliciously  pervaded  with  the  at- 
mosphere and  souvenirs  of  one  of  the  most  fas- 
cinating women  of  France. 

As  an  illustration  of  the  influence  of  heredity 
Madame  de  Sevigne  furnishes  a  notable  instance, 
we  note  her  two  contrasting  sides — the  serious,  the 
religious,  and  that  other  in  which  piquancy,  satire, 
gaiety,  elegance,  and  social  charm  are  combined. 
On  the  one  side  we  trace  the  mysticism  of  the 
grandmother,  Madame  de  Chautal.  On  the  other 
bubbles  the  sparkling  red  blood  of  the  Rabutins. 
Two  more  opposing  elements  never  met  in  the 
veins  of  mortal  woman.  In  this  conjunction  we 
find  the  varied  traits  of  Madame  de  Sevigne — 
grave  and  gay — tender  and  satirical — charming 
and  cruel — enjoying  alike  "Rabelais"  and  "The 
Lives  of  the  Saints" — devote  at  the  altar  of  the 
little  chapel  of  Les  Rochers  and  at  Versailles  gaily 


24  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

leading  the  dance  as  partner  of  the  Sun  King. 
Vo'tla  notre  Chatelaine/ 

As  a  matter  of  fact  many  Bretons,  while  always 
appreciating  her  genius  as  letter-writer  and  her 
charm  as  mistress  of  Les  Rochers,  do  not  love 
Madame  de  Sevigne.  One  is  not  surprised  at  this, 
recalling  that  in  more  than  one  of  the  "Letters" 
she  recounts  the  acts  of  de  Chaulnes  the  Governor- 
General  of  Brittany,  appointed  by  Louis  XIV,  who 
erected  gibbets  all  over  the  Province  and  hung 
many  hundreds  of  Bretons  because  they  resisted 
gross  injustice  and  held  to  their  traditions.  And 
these  events  were  recorded  by  our  letter-writer  of 
Les  Rochers  without  a  trace  of  sorrow,  pity  or  ten- 
derness. .  For  this  reason  at  the  recent  inauguration 
of  a  statue  at  Vitre  in  honour  of  Madame  de  Se- 
vigne, many  Bretons  were  conspicuous  by  their  ab- 
sence. 


CHAPTER  V 

RENNES.   DOL   AND   DU   GUESCLIN 

We  REACH  Rennes  after  two  and  a  half  hours 
of  travel  from  Vitre.  Fifteen  hundred  years  ago 
Rennes  was  an  interesting  place.  It  was  one  of 
two  Capitals  of  Brittany,  the  seat  of  an  Archbish- 
op, and  has  always  been  a  prominent  military 
point.  Two  rivers,  the  Ille  and  La  Vilaine,  join 
their  waters  at  this  point,  giving  the  name  Ille-et- 
Vilaine  to  this  Department  of  Brittany.  The 
upper  part  of  the  town  is  handsome  with  its  Palace 
of  Justice,  Prefecture,  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  Ca- 
thedral, while  the  other  end  of  the  town  contains 
the  Academies,  the  Lyceum,  the  University,  and 
the  Museums.  But  to  the  traveller  the  few  nar- 
row, crooked  streets  which  remain  of  mediaeval 
Rennes  are  far  more  interesting.  The  Museums 
are  rich  and  important. 

Rennes  is  the  birthplace  of  many  well-known 
personages,  among  them  Paul  Feval  the  novelist, 

25 


26  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

the  astronomer  Binet,  General  Marbeuf,  General 
Boulanger,  the  political  agitator,  and  Rennes  will 
long  be  remembered  as  the  mise-en-scene  of  the 
most  notable  trial  of  the  century  in  France — that 
of  Captain  Dreyfus.  It  was  also  the  birthplace  of 
the  philosopher  Descartes. 

The  ancestors  of  Rene  Descartes  had  for  many 
years  worn  the  robe.  His  father  was  Councillor 
of  the  Parliament  of  Brittany  and  the  family  was 
one  of  the  most  aristocratic  of  the  Province. 
In  the  year  1596,  this  child  came  into  the  world. 
His  family  would  not  have  believed  that  through 
him  their  name  was  destined  to  survive  and  that 
the  beginning  of  Modern  Philosophy  was  to  date 
from  this  Breton  town.  For  the  richly  robed 
Councillor  was  unable  to  understand  the  shy,  mod- 
est, studious  boy,  and  all  Rennes  considered  Rene 
Descartes  a  good-for-naught.  A  single  day  suf- 
fices for  Rennes  and  we  pursue  our  journey  toward 
the  coast  where  more  real  interests  await  us. 

Our  next  stopping  place  is  Dol — a  queer  little 
town,  ancient  and  interesting.  In  olden  time  Dol 
stood  in  the  heart  of  a  mysterious  forest.  A  legend 
tells  us  that  this  forest,  from  whose  sacred  oaks  the 
Druids  gathered  mistletoe,  was  submerged  by  the 
ocean  which,  regardless  of  precedent,  threatened 
to  include  the  town.  It  was  one  Samson,  formerly 
Archbishop  of  York,  now  the  first  Bishop  of  Dol, 
who  came  to  the  rescue.  Through  his  prayers  the 
waves  receded,  leaving  the  town  intact.     But  the 


.••**  I  •■■■ 


E..2*  ,-'-w- 


PHOTO    BY     FRANCES 


THE    GREAT    MENHIR    OF    DOL 


RENNES,    DOL   AND    DU    GUESCLIN        27 

forest  was  swept  into  the  sea,  parts  of  it  attaching 
themselves  to  the  Islands  of  Jersey  and  Guernsey. 
Many  of  these  oaks  were  deposited  during  the 
transit  and  have  been  found  in  the  sands  that  sur- 
round Mont  St.  Michel.  Naturally  Samson  has 
been  the  favourite  Saint  of  Dol  ever  since.  The, 
Cathedral  bears  the  name  of  this  guardian  of  the 
town  and  dates  from  the  thirteenth  century. 

The  disappearance  of  this  druidic  forest  gave 
rise  to  the  famous  Breton  Legend  of  the  Flood, 
one  incident  of  which  is  related  thus:  "As  the 
waters  increased  Amel  the  pastor  and  Penhor  his 
wife  are  upon  the  point  of  being  submerged.  At 
this  moment  of  peril  Amel  places  Penhor,  holding 
their  child  in  her  arms,  upon  his  head  for  safety. 
As  the  water  still  rises,  Penhor  places  the  little 
one  upon  her  head.  The  flood  mounts  higher  and 
higher  until  the  blonde  head  of  the  child  and  a  bit 
of  its  blue  gown  appear  upon  the  surface  of  the 
water.  An  angel  flying  heavenward  perceives  this 
bit  of  blue  and  gold  and  says:  "There's  a  little  one 
belonging  to  me,"  and  proceeds  to  lift  it.  She  finds 
it  difficult  because  attached  to  the  little  Raoul  is 
Penhor  the  mother,  and  she,  in  turn,  is  held  fast 
by  Amel  the  father.  The  angel,  smiling,  drops  a 
tear  as  she  beholds  this  cluster  of  hearts  and  will 
not  separate  them." 

The  Cathedral  of  Dol,  one  of  the  most  ancient 
in  Brittany,  is  worthy  of  a  visit. 

From  Dol  we  travel  to  Pontorson.    Pontorson  is 


28  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

embedded  in  books  and  legends  and  offers  little  ot 
sightseeing  to-day.  It  tells  no  modern  story  to  the 
traveller.  It  leads  a  humdrum  life  of  its  own,  and 
it  is  probable  that  none  of  its  inhabitants,  save  pos- 
sibly the  librarian  and  curator  of  the  museum,  has 
so  much  as  heard  of  the  soldier  who,  six  centuries 
ago,  was  creating  something  of  a  commotion 
in  its  neighborhood.  But  in  history  Pontorson  will 
ever  be  associated  with  the  story  of  a  Bad  Boy — 
a  Bad  Breton  Boy,  who,  contrary  to  all  rules  of 
ethics,  and  with  no  hatchet  legend  to  start  with, 
became  the  "Father  of  his  Country" — the  Protec- 
tor of  his  Country.  Pontorson  was  the  field  of 
many  a  bold  deed  of  the  brave  Captain — Bertrand 
Du  Guesclin. 

A  Picardy  poet — Cuvelier — is  his  biographer. 
In  the  thirty  thousand  verses  devoted  to  his  sub- 
ject, he  tells  us  frankly  that  in  all  the  country  be- 
tween Rennes  and  Dinan  such  a  snub-nosed, 
swarthy,  boorish  and  disagreeable  person  could  not 
be  found.  He  was  ill-shapen  and  had  greenish 
eyes.  But  his  arms  and  hands  were  like  steel,  and 
in  their  lines  one  saw  traces  of  good  blood,  such  is 
the  portrait  traced  in  the  poem.  Paul  Deroulede, 
in  his  play  "Du  Guesclin,"  gives  a  fine  delineation 
of  the  brave,  brusque,  intrepid  Captain,  which 
role  Coquelin  interpreted  to  perfection,  the  ab- 
sence of  facial  beauty  in  the  great  comedian  doing 
good  service  in  his  make-up,  and  the  piece  filled 
the  Porte  St.  Martin  theatre  in  the  season  of  ,95~,96 


RENNES,    DOL   AND    DU    GUESCLIN        29 

with  applauding  Parisian  audiences  to  the  one  hun- 
dredth representation. 

It  is  upon  the  fourteenth  century  trouvere,  Cuve- 
lier,  and  upon  Breton  legends  that  we  must  rely 
for  the  story  of  the  boy  Du  Guesclin.  From  these 
sources  we  know  that  Bertrand  was  born  in  1320, 
and  was  the  son  of  a  Breton  knight  and  noble  dame. 
The  Du  Guesclin  had  far  less  fortune  than  lineage. 
So  the  beginnings  of  Bertrand  were  very  modest 
if  not  very  exemplary.  He  was  of  a  surly  nature, 
always  in  fights  and  turmoils,  always  striking  or 
being  struck.  A  nursery  legend  has  it  that  when 
two  years  of  age  he  had  a  way  of  amusing  himself 
with  a  stick  which  made  him  the  terror  of  ser- 
vants and  visitors.  Wherever  he  went  a  troop  of 
scapegraces  followed  him,  quarrelsome,  insolent, 
imitating  their  leader.  These  he  would  arrange 
in  two  lines  and  compel  to  fight  until  parents  and 
friends  came  to  the  rescue  with  poultices  and  plas- 
ters. He  took  them  upon  thieving  expeditions, 
selling  the  booty  at  Rennes  and  coming  home 
bruised  in  body  and  with  clothing  torn  from  head 
to  foot.  He  made  himself  odious  even  to  his  par- 
ents. One  legend  tells  us  that  whenever  this  boy, 
then  at  the  age  of  nine,  left  his  father's  castle  the 
town  crier  and  his  bell  warned  the  population  of 
Pontorson  that  Bertrand  Du  Guesclin  was  abroad. 

After  many  escapes  and  a  six-months'  imprison- 
ment in  the  tower  of  his  father's  castle,  he  escapes 
and  gallops  off  to  Rennes  to  the  house  of  his  uncle. 


30  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Now  this  uncie  was  an  old  soldier  and  able  to  ap- 
preciate such  an  extraordinary  nephew,  and  we 
find  the  merry  pair  eating  and  drinking,  fencing 
and  riding  from  morning  to  night.  The  Bretons 
have  always  been  famous  wrestlers.  Even  to-day 
Paris  and  London  sporting  newspapers  send  cor- 
respondents to  the  little  town  of  Scaer  in  Finis- 
tere  to  describe  and  photograph  the  wrestling 
matches  which  take  place  in  every  August. 

One  Sunday  there  was  a  great  wrestling  match 
in  Rennes.  A  hat  ornamented  with  a  hundred 
feathers  was  the  prize  offered  to  the  victor.  Judge 
of  Bertrand's  emotions  when  his  aunt,  to  prevent 
his  going  to  the  match,  took  him  to  church  with 
her  to  hear  a  sermon!  Luckily  for  the  boy  she 
forgot  to  tie  him  to  the  bench  as  was  her  habit. 
Between  two  points  of  the  sermon  she  looked 
around  and  he  had  vanished.  Of  course  he  turns 
up  at  the  match,  wins  the  prize,  and  wears  the 
hundred-feathered  hat  home  in  triumph.  Later 
when  sixteen  years  of  age,  at  a  great  tourney  held 
in  Rennes  to  celebrate  the  marriage  of  their  duch- 
ess, we  see  Bertrand  mounted  on  a  fine  horse  win- 
ning fresh  laurels.  The  fact  of  his  father  being 
among  the  spectators  adds  zest  to  the  story. 

A  certain  beautiful  maid  of  noble  birth  among 
the  spectators  that  day  lost  her  heart  to  the  con- 
quering Bertrand.  This  was  Typhaine  Rageunel, 
who  afterward  became  his  wife.  He  came  to  be 
famous  throughout  Brittany  and  France  for  his 


RENNES,    DOL    AND    DU    GUESCLIN         31 

strength  and  bravery.  Dinan,  Pontorson  and 
Motte-Broon  have  furnished  popular  songs  in 
praise  of  him.  He  rose  to  be  the  greatest  captain 
of  his  time,  was  made  Constable  of  France,  and 
became  a  close  friend  of  his  King,  Charles  V.  At 
his  death  his  body  was  borne  through  the  kingdom 
in  the  midst  of  a  population  in  tears,  and  he  was 
buried  at  St.  Denis  among  the  kings  of  France. 
But  Brittany  claimed  his  heart  and  in  the  church 
of  St.  Sauveur  at  Dinan  a  cenotaph  in  white  marble 
encloses  this  relic,  above  which  is  engraven  the 
arms  of  Du  Guesclin.  All  this  and  much  besides 
we  find  in  the  thirty  thousand  verses  of  the  poet 
who  has  been  named:  "The  Homer  of  Du  Gues- 
clin." 

But  after  all  a  single  utterance  of  the  great 
Breton  soldier,  taken  from  an  address  to  his  sol- 
diers as  they  were  about  to  enter  upon  a  campaign, 
gives  the  real  keynote  to  his  character. 

"Soldiers: 
In  whatever  country  you  may 
Make  war  do  not  forget  what  I 
Have  told  you  a  thousand  times — 
That  the  clergy,  the  women,  the 
Children  and  the  poor  are  not 
Your  enemies." 


CHAPTER  VI 

FOLK-LORE  AND  JEANNE  DE  PONTORSON 

WHILE  we  are  in  the  country  of  Du  Guesclin  we 
should  take  note  of  one  of  its  legends.  For  Pontor- 
son,  like  every  Breton  town,  has  its  legend — old 
tales  stored  away  in  the  memory  of  the  people, 
passing  through  many  generations  and  repeated  by 
the  Bretons  to-day.  The  Pontorson  ballad  bears 
the  title :  "The  Vassal  of  Du  Guesclin." 

But  before  reciting  this  ballad  let  us  speak  for 
a  moment  of  the  Breton  folk-lore.  It  is  doubtless 
true  that  while  History  records  the  official  deeds 
of  a  people,  we  must  seek  the  old  songs  to  know 
the  intimate  life  of  a  race.  How  many  historic 
facts  also  hide  themselves  in  legendary  tales.  Es- 
pecially is  the  moral  truth  visible  through  the 
transparent  veil  of  the  myth.  Emile  Souvestre 
says  beautifully:  "The  wind  of  a  century  sweeps 
across  a  people  and  songs  which  tell  what  it  saw 
and  what  it  felt  are  born.  Each  song  is  a  chapter 
of  human  life.  It  indicates  the  moral  tempera- 
ment of  the  people  to  which  it  belongs.  Confided 
to  the  memory  of  successive  generations  it  retains 

32 


FOLK-LORE  AND  JEANNE  DE  PONTORSON    33 

something  of  each,  and  the  philologist  and  folk- 
lorist  find  in  the  ensemble  a  foundation  as  easy  to 
decipher  as  does  the  geologist  the  strata  which 
he  encounters." 

The  folk-lore  of  all  peoples  offers  striking  analo- 
gies, being  alike  the  na'ive  expressions  of  the  human 
heart.  The  variations  are  caused  by  the  ruling 
characteristics  of  each  nation,  thus  the  expression 
of  the  southern  race  is  passionate  and  proud;  that 
of  the  northern  people  bold  and  warlike.  The 
folk-songs  of  Germany  are  often  child-like,  naive 
and  poetic.  When  we  recall  the  "Tales  of  the 
Thousand  and  One  Nights,"  we  evoke  impressions 
of  the  deep,  blue,  starry  skies,  gorgeous  colours 
and  perfumes.  The  old  songs  of  North  Scotland 
are  warlike,  bold,  sometimes  touched  with  gentle- 
ness. As  for  the  Breton  muse  it  shares  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  German,  the  gloom  of  the  Scandi- 
navian and  the  melancholy  of  the  Scotch.  In  the 
song:  "The  Vassal  of  Du  Guesclin,"  as  is  often  the 
case  in  the  Breton  songs,  the  denoument  is  indi- 
cated in  the  first  few  lines  which  serve  as  prologue. 
It  is  composed  of  several  short  scenes  which  re- 
cite the  adventures  of  Jean  of  Pontorson  and  his 
Captain  Du  Guesclin,  who  commanded  the  armed 
troops  of  Pontorson  in  the  wars  against  the  Eng- 
lish. M.  Villemarque  translated  this  ballad  from 
the  Keltic  into  French.  We  give  our  rendering  in 
English  which  is,  as  are  all  translations,  unsatisfac- 
tory, even  if  faithfully  rendered. 


34  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

PROLOGUE 

A  great  castle  stands  in  the  midst  of  a  forest; 
all  around  it  deep  water,  at  each  corner  a  tower; 
in  the  court  of  honour  a  pit  filled  with  bones.    And 

the  heap  grows  higher  with  every  night. 

****** 

The  drawbridge  of  the  castle  falls  easily,  and 
he  who  enters  never  departs. 

Scene  I 

Across  the  country  held  by  the  English  a  young 
Knight  rode  swiftly. 

A  young  Knight  named  Jean  of  Pontorson, 
As  he  rode  past  the  castle  at  nightfall, 
He  demanded  hospitality  of  the  chief  sentinel. 
— Dismount,  Oh!  Knight,  dismount  and  enter  the 

castle, 
And  put  your  bay  steed  in  the  stable 
Where  he  shall  eat  his  fill  of  barley  and  of  hay 
While  you  shall  sup  at  the  table  of  the  Lord  of  the 

castle. 

Scene  II 

Now  as  he  supped  at  table  with  the  armed  men 
They  spake  not  a  word  to  Jean  of  Pontorson 
It  was  as  if  they  were  drunk. 
But  they  said  to  the  young  girl : 
"Mount  Begana  to  the  guest  chamber 
And  prepare  the  bed  for  this  young  knight  our 
guest," 


FOLK-LORE  AND  JEANNE  DE  PONTORSON     35 

When  the  great  bell  of  the  castle  struck  the  hour 

of  midnight 
They  led  the  young  knight  to  the  guest  chamber. 

Scene  III 

Now  Jean  of  Pontorson  was  singing  in  his  cnam- 
ber, 

Singing  gaily  in  his  chamber 

As  he  placed  his  ivory  hunting  horn  by  his  bed- 
side. 

But  Begana,  pale  and  sighing,  stood  waiting  si- 
lently. 

— "Begana,  my  pretty  sister,  tell  me  something, 

Why  do  you  look  at  me  thus  and  sigh?" 

— "Alas!    Alas!  if  you  but  knew,  dear  master, 

You  would  not  sing  thus  gaily  in  the  night, 

For  under  your  pillow  there  is  a  dagger. 

The  blood  of  the  third  man  they  have  slain 

Is  not  yet  dry  upon  the  blade. 

Oh!    Knight,  you  are  to  be  the  fourth, 

Your  silver,  your  gold  and  your  arms, 

Everything  except  your  bay  steed  have  they  taken." 

Scene  IV 

Then  Jean  of  Pontorson  from  under  the  pillow 
Drew  forth  a  dagger.    It  was  red  with  blood. 
— "Begana,  dear  sister,  if  you  will  but  save  me 
I  will  give  you  five  hundred  golden  sous." 
— "I  thank  you,  O  Knight,  but  answer  me  first 
Are  you  wedded?  or  are  you  not?" 


36  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

— "I  cannot  deceive  you,  Begana,  my  sister, 

Only  a  fortnight  have  I  been  wedded. 

But  I  have  three  brothers,  they  are  better  than  I, 

If  it  please  your  heart  choose  one  of  them." 

— "Nothing  pleases  my  heart,  neither  man  nor 

gold, 
Nothing  pleases  my  heart  but  you,  O  Knight! 
Follow  me,  the  drawbridge  will  not  hinder, 
The  sentry  will  not  stop  us,  he  is  my  brother." 
— Then  said  the  knight  to  Begana  the  maid : 
"Mount,  my  sister,  mount  in  the  croup  of  my  sad- 
dle 
And  we'll  ride  to  Guingamp  to  find  my  Captain, 
We  shall  see  by  what  right  I  should  have  been 

slain. 
Let  us  ride  to  Guingamp  where  my  right  royal 

Guesclin 
Besieges  the  walls  of  Pestivien." 

Scene  V 

"Oh!    People  of  Guingamp,  I  greet  you, 

I  greet  you  in  good  faith.    And  my  Lord  Guesclin 

Tell  me  in  God's  name  where  is  he?" 

— "If  it  is  Lord  Guesclin  you  seek, 

You  will  find  him  in  the  low  tower  in  the  hall  of 

the  barons." 
Then  Jean  of  Pontorson,  entering  the  hall, 
Walked  straightway  to  Lord  Guesclin. 
— "The  grace  of  God  be  with  you,  my  Lord  Gues- 
clin, 


PHOTO  BY  FRANCE 


THE  VIRGIN   OF  RUMERGOL 


FOLK-LORE  AND  JEANNE  DE  PONTORSON     37 

God  protect  you.    And  may  you  protect  Jean  of 

Pontorson,  your  vassal." 
— "The  grace  of  God  be  with  you  also  who  speak 

thus  courteously, 
He  whom  God  protects  should  protect  others. 
But  what  can  be  done  for  you?    Tell  me  in  few 

words." 
— "I  have  need  of  some  one  who  will  come  to  the 

borders  of  Pestivien. 
There  are  English  there  who  oppress  the  people 

of  the  country 

Ravaging  the  country  for  seven  leagues  about, 

Whoever  enters  there  is  slain  without  pity. 

But  for  this  young  girl  I  also  should  have  been 

slain, 
I  should  have  been  slain  like  many  another. 
I  have  here  the  dagger  still  red  with  their  blood." 
Then  Du  Guesclin  cried  out:  "By  the  Saints  of 

Brittany! 
So  long  as  there  shall  be  a  live  Englishman 
There  will  be  neither  peace  nor  law. 
Let  them  saddle  my  horse,  let  them  bring  me  my 

arms  and  we  are  off." 

Scene  VI 

Now  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  from  the  high  tower 

of  the  battlements, 
Jeering,  demanded  of  Du  Guesclin: 


38  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

"Are  you  coming  to  a  ball  that  you  are  thus  tricked 
out, 

You  and  your  soldiers?" 

— "Yes,  by  my  faith!  Lord  Anglais,  we  are  com- 
ing to  a  ball 

But  it  is  not  to  dance,  it  is  to  make  others  dance, 

To  make  you  dance  a  jig  which  will  not  soon  be 
finished, 

For  when  we  are  tired  the  devils  will  take  our 
place." 

At  the  first  assault  the  walls  trembled 
And  the  castle  shook  to  its  foundations. 
At  the  second  assault  three  towers  fell 
And  two  hundred  men  were  slain,  then  two  hun- 
dred more, 
At  the  third  assault  the  gates  were  broken 
The  Bretons  rushed  in  and  the  castle  was  taken. 
The  castle  has  been  destroyed,  the  earth  has  been 

levelled. 
And  the  laborer  now  passes  in  his  cart, 
And  as  he  passes  he  sings: 
"Although  the  Englishman  be  a  wicked  traitor 
He  shall  not  conquer  Brittany  so  long  as  the  stones 
of  the  Druids  shall  stand." 

The  prophetic  lines  of  this  ancient  ballad  are 
sung  to-day  by  the  beggar  minstrels  of  Brittany. 
Nor  is  Du  Guesclin,  Protector  of  Brittany,  forgot- 
ten. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MONT  ST.  MICHEL  AND  ITS  LEGEND 

STANDING  boldly  off  the  coast  at  the  point  where 
Brittany  joins  her  sister  Province,  Normandy,  rises 
Mont  St.  Michel — town,  castle  and  monastery 
combined.  The  town  at  the  base  of  the  rock,  the 
platform  of  the  walls,  the  castle  rising  above  the 
wall,  the  monastery  piled  above  the  castle — and 
all,  as  if  it  were  glued  to  the  enormous  rock.  This 
gigantic  pile  stands  in  an  estuary  of  the  river 
Couesnon,  which  separates  the  two  Provinces.  Ac- 
cording to  ancient  chronicles  both  Normans  and 
Bretons  claimed  the  Mount  and  some  mildly  scorn- 
ful verses  passed  to  and  fro.  The  Bretons  put  it 
thus: 

"Le  Couesnon  dans  sa  folie 
A  mis  le  Mont  en  Normandie." 

To  which  the  Normans  retorted: 

"Si  bonne  n'etait  Normandie 
St.  Michel  ne  s'y  serait  mis." 

39 


4o  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Normandy,  whether  by  the  gentle  logic  of  her 
rhymes  or  by  more  vigorous  means,  seems  to  have 
gained  undisputed  possession  and  to-day  her  only 
rival  is  the  Bay  of  Cancale,  which  formerly  at  high 
tide  turned  the  Mount  into  an  island,  while  in  low 
waters  one  reached  the  place  on  dry  land. 

An  English  poet  has  named  Cancale  "the  blue, 
savage,  Norman  bay" — "savage"  because  at  the 
equinoxial  period  when  the  tide  rises,  instead  of 
gradually  advancing  and  receding,  one  great  wave 
sweeps  to  the  base  of  the  rock  and  surrounds  it. 
And  woe  betide  the  unlucky  traveller  if  caught  in 
its  swift  course.  At  low  tide  the  danger  is  great 
because  of  the  quicksands  which,  for  centuries, 
have  been  a  terror  to  pilgrims  and  travellers.  A 
few  years  ago  a  causeway  raised  to  a  point  of  safety 
was  constructed,  and  to-day  one  may  reach  the 
Mount  without  peril. 

Mont  St.  Michel  was  already  famous  in  those 
days  when  brave  knights  rode  away  to  the  wars  in 
the  Holy  Land.  To-day  it  is  valued  as  a  monu- 
ment of  art  and  for  its  ecclesiastical,  civil  and  mili- 
tary history.  "Rock,  city,  stronghold,  cathedral" 
— representing  the  idea  of  Chivalry  through 
Charlemagne  and  of  Christianity  through  St. 
Louis,  it  stands  a  harmonious  mass  of  grandeur  and 
beauty. 

The  journey  from  Pontorson  to  Mont  St. 
Michel,  until  two  years  ago,  was  made  by  means  of 
a  clumsy  old  diligence.    A  tram-car,  alas !  now  con- 


MONT  ST.  MICHEL  AND  ITS  LEGEND        41 

veys  passengers,  but  the  ancient  vehicle  is  often 
preferred — always  by  us.  The  swing  of  it  as  it 
rolls  noiselessly  along  the  sands  provokes  revery 
and  fancy.  Flocks  of  sheep  feed  on  the  salt 
marshes  at  our  left.  Our  diligence  plods  along  and 
now  we  round  a  curve,  and  suddenly,  as  if  swung 
against  the  sky  whose  blue  is  fast  turning  to  gold 
as  the  sun  goes  down,  looms  the  mighty  Mount. 
Its  walls  and  towers  and  flying  buttresses  are  ablaze 
with  sunset  colours,  while  at  its  base  the  greys  and 
violets  blend  hazily  into  a  harmonious  mass,  turn- 
ing the  solid  masonry  into  dreamy  lines  of  some 
fantastic  castle. 

When  we  enter  the  first  gate  of  the  town,  which 
lies  along  the  base  of  the  rock,  we  are  confronted 
by  a  bit  of  history  in  the  shape  of  two  antiquated 
cannon  abandoned  by  the  besieging  English  in 
1434.  We  pass  through  a  second  gate,  and,  fol- 
lowing the  queer  narrow  street,  find  ourselves  at 
the  entrance  of  the  most  enticing  of  kitchens.  The 
interior  of  Madame  Poulard's  cuisine  offers  a  sub- 
ject for  a  picture  such  as  Teniers  would  have  de- 
lighted to  paint.  Before  a  deep  broad  chimney  with 
its  roaring  log  fire  stands  our  famous  hostess.  She 
has  been  painted  by  artists,  sung  by  poets,  and  is 
known  all  over  France  as  the  Queen  of  Mont  St. 
Michel.  A  double  row  of  chickens  strung  upon 
long  spits  revolves  slowly  before  the  fire.  They 
have  reached  that  climax  of  colour  and  crispness 
that  would  tempt  a  saint  into  the  sin  of  gluttony. 


42  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Madame  Poulard,  standing  in  the  firelight,  holds 
the  handle,  six  feet  long,  of  an  immense  frying 
pan  in  which  an  omelet — the  famous  traditional 
omelet  of  the  Mount — is  foaming  and  browning. 
She  wears  the  daintiest  of  collars  and  cuffs,  and  a 
large  apron  protects  her  tidy  black  gown.  She 
has  never  been  known  to  lose  her  temper,  nor  has 
she  lost  her  fine  complexion,  although  for  over  a 
score  of  years  she  has  roasted  chickens  and  cooked 
the  omelets  that  have  made  her  little  inn  famous. 
The  omelet,  however,  is  not  of  her  invention.  It 
is  to  the  monks  of  France  that  we  owe  this  as  many 
another  good  dish.  We  are  told  that  the  secret 
of  this  historic  omelet  has  come  down  through 
centuries  from  the  ancient  kitchens  of  the 
Mount. 

In  this  unique  inn  there  is  no  bell,  no  office,  no 
answering  boy.  The  dormitories  are  half  way  up 
the  mountain.  After  we  have  dined  and  taken 
our  coffee  at  one  of  the  small  tables  outside  in  the 
narrow  street,  we  receive  from  our  hostess  a  smil- 
ing goodnight  and  a  small  paper  lantern  lighted 
by  a  candle  end,  bearing  on  its  exterior  the  legend : 
"Poulard."  A  narrow  flight  of  stone  steps  brings 
us  from  the  street  to  the  top  of  the  inner  wall  of 
the  town.  We  cross  a  bastion,  round  an  eleventh 
century  tower,  creep  timidly  under  archways,  climb 
other  flights  of  stone  steps,  mossy  and  worn,  and 
at  length  reach  the  dormitory.  Each  separate  bed- 
room commands  a  splendid  view.    We  look  down 


MONT  ST.  MICHEL  AND  ITS  LEGEND       43 

into  the  narrow  street  where  we  lately  took  our 
coffee  and  see  other  little  lanterns  dancing  hither 
and  thither;  we  look  up  into  the  mysterious  arches 
of  the  monastery  standing  solemnly  against  the 
night  sky;  and  we  look  out  and  away  across  the 
sand  to  the  sea.  Whether  below,  above  or  sea- 
ward, all  is  weird  and  shadowy  and  dreamy  in  the 
light  of  a  young  moon. 

This  moon  has  witnessed  strange  scenes  in  her 
time.  Where  the  Bay  of  Cancale  now  lies  shining 
in  her  light  once  stood  oak  forests  wherein  Druids 
celebrated  their  mysterious  rites. 

Next  morning  our  coffee  and  rolls  came  up  to  us 
fresh  from  the  hands  of  our  hostess,  after  which 
we  explore  the  monastery.  This  must  be  always 
done  with  a  guide. 

The  monastery  dates  back  to  the  year  704  when 
St.  Aubert,  of  a  rich  and  noble  family,  and  arch- 
bishop of  Avranches,  was  wont  to  dream  and  medi- 
tate in  the  forest  of  Scissy.  St.  Michael  appeared 
to  him  in  a  dream  and  commanded  him  to  build  an 
edifice  on  the  mountain  in  honour  of  him.  At  first 
St.  Aubert  put  no  faith  in  the  vision  nor  did  a 
second  appearance  move  him.  But  a  third  mani- 
festation convinced  his  doubtful  mind.  It  was 
claimed  by  some  that  in  the  strenuousness  of  this 
last  appeal  the  finger  of  the  archangel  made  its 
impression  upon  the  forehead  of  the  saint  and 
some  ardent  polemics  have  resulted.  The  ques- 
tion has,  however,  been  settled  for  the  skull  of  St. 


44  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Aubert  treasured  in  a  church  of  Avranches  shows 
"an  oblong  opening  in  the  right  pariental  bone 
large  enough  for  a  finger  to  enter  it!" 

St.  Aubert  constructed  an  edifice  which  was  at 
first  little  more  than  a  grotto.  Finally  a  small 
temple  was  built  and  a  college  of  twelve  monks 
established.  This  little  group  found  in  St.  Mi- 
chael an  ever  faithful  ally,  always  aiding  in  any 
dilemma  by  miraculous  means. 

Later  on  Pilgrimages  began  to  take  place. 
Every  Pope  sent  valuable  relics;  every  King  and 
Emperor  in  Christendom  went  as  pilgrims  to  the 
Mount,  carrying  rich  offerings.  Charlemagne 
added  greatly  to  its  fame.  Dukes  and  Counts  of 
the  Province  placed  treasures  at  the  feet  of  the 
statue  which  surmounted  the  temple.  Mont  St. 
Michel  became  a  fad  with  popes,  kings  and 
people. 

The  place  figures  in  the  Song  of  Roland,  the 
Epic  of  France.  And  here  a  Knight  of  the  Round 
Table  slew  a  horrible  giant  who  had  for  seven 
years  subsisted  on  young  children,  but  by  way  of 
variety  one  day  seized  the  Duchess  of  Brittany 
and  carried  her  off  to  his  cave  on  the  Mount.  Thus 
the  Mount  figures  in  legends  two  hundred  years 
earlier  than  the  period  of  that  of  St.  Aubert. 
Poets  and  novelists  have  found  rich  material  here. 
The  German  poet  Uhland  makes  use  of  one  of  the 
best-known  legends  in  one  of  his  poems,  which  our 
own  Longfellow  expresses  in  part  in  the  verses 


MONT  ST.  MICHEL  AND  ITS  LEGEND       45 

under  the  title:  "The  Castle  by  the  Sea."  Paul 
Feval  has  written  many  stories  in  which  the 
legends  of  Mont  St.  Michel  play  a  part.  In  the 
eleventh  century  when  Robert  the  Devil  of  Nor- 
mandy was  having  his  fling,  his  mad  pranks  fur- 
nished much  gossip  at  the  Mount.  And  the  deeds 
of  his  son  William  the  Conqueror  added  to  its 
glory.  The  Mount  makes  its  first  and  only  ap- 
pearance in  tapestry  in  the  story  woven  by  the 
Duchess  Matilda's  fair  hands  as  she  sat  among 
her  maidens  and  illustrated  the  story  of  her  gal- 
lant lord  in  the  curious  web  of  the  Bayeux  Tapes- 
try. In  one  of  the  panels  Harold  is  dragging  two 
of  his  companions  out  of  the  treacherous  quick- 
sands. Another  panel  describes  other  disasters  in 
crossing  the  sands.  She  places  figures  curiously  in 
the  drawing — a  minute  temple  is  perched  on  the 
summit  of  a  green  hillock. 

As  we  wander  through  the  gloomy  arches  see- 
ing on  one  hand  the  dungeons — veritable  holes 
whence  prisoners  were  seldom  brought  out  alive 
— on  the  other  hand  oubliettes — all  those  under- 
ground horrors  which  some  writer  has  named :  "the 
black  entrails  of  Mont  St.  Michel,"  we  are  op- 
pressed with  the  gloomy  tales  these  granite  blocks 
tell.  In  one  of  the  lower  vaults  of  the  Abbey  stood 
the  "iron  cage  of  the  Cardinal."  In  the  darkest  of 
the  dungeons  many  victims  imprisoned  by  Louis 
XIV  died  of  cold  and  hunger  and  gnawed  by  rats. 
Through  these  gloomy  corridors,  at  one  epoch  of 


46  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

his  imprisonment,  walked  the  "Man  of  the  Iron 
Mask."    It  is  dark,  a  terrible  record. 

The  "Crypt  of  the  Large  Pillars" — twelve  enor- 
mous columns,  each  twelve  feet  in  circumference 
— excited  wonder.  But  it  is  a  relief  to  leave  these 
dismal  regions  and  ascend  to  the  more  cheerful 
"Hall  of  the  Knights,"  which  shows  the  more 
human  side  of  the  monastery.  It  is  pleasant  to 
imagine  the  gathering  knights  in  mediaeval  times 
when,  bent  on  quest  or  tourney,  they  flocked  to  the 
Mount,  sure  of  right  royal  cheer,  for  the  monks  of 
Mont  St.  Michel  were  noted  for  their  hospitality. 
What  turning  of  spits  and  unearthing  of  old  wines 
took  place  at  such  times!  What  fires  must  have 
blazed  in  these  wide-throated  chimneys  inside 
which  a  score  of  knights  might  stand!  What  rat- 
tling of  armour  and  clanking  of  spurs  and  greet- 
ing of  brothers-in-arms  ran  through  these  spacious 
halls!  And  we  wander,  up  and  down,  and  outside 
we  stand  on  dizzy  heights.  From  one  of  the  tow- 
ers we  admire  the  delicate  flying  buttresses.  From 
a  parapet  we  see  the  pinnacles  and  dainty  carvings 
of  the  "Escalier  des  Dentelles"  And  we  find  our- 
selves in  grim  company  up  among  the  gargoyles 
— dogs,  dragons,  griffins,  all  sorts  of  fantastic,  im- 
possible beasts — a  solemn  and  silent  company 
sternly  guarding  the  secrets  they  know. 

Louis  XIV  converted  parts  of  the  Abbey  into  a 
prison.  Louis  XV  continued  to  use  it  in  the  same 
manner.    In  1790  the  monks  were  dispersed  and 


MONT  ST.  MICHEL  AND  ITS  LEGEND        47 

the  entire  Abbey  was  used  as  a  prison  into  which 
the  Revolutionists  hustled  three  hundred  from  Av- 
ranches  and  Rennes.  Finally  the  Convention  con- 
verted the  place  into  a  state  prison.  In  181 1 
Napoleon  made  it  a  Capital  House,  and  the  Res- 
toration turned  it  into  a  prison  of  Correction. 
Between  1793  and  1863,  more  than  fourteen  thou- 
sand prisoners  were  placed  at  Mont  St.  Michel. 
Many  mutilations  are  the  result  of  these  changes. 
It  has  remained  for  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  of 
France  to  do  justice  to  the  value  of  this  historic 
place,  by  purchasing  it,  thus  restoring  to  France 
a  monumental  treasure  alike  valuable  to  archaeolo- 
gist, artist,  historian  and  ooet — to  church  and  state. 


This    description    was    written    before   the    death    of    Madame 
Poulard. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ST.  MALO  AND  CHATEAUBRIAND 

OUR  travels  thus  far  have  been  within  the  limits 
of  that  Department  of  Brittany  known  as  Ille-et- 
Vilaine.  We  now  enter  the  Department  of  the 
C6tes-du-Nord.  A  journey  of  two  hours  by  rail 
from  Pontorson  brings  us  to  St.  Malo. 

St.  Malo,  built  upon  an  island  at  the  mouth  of 
the  river  Ranee  and  connected  in  earlier  times  to 
the  Continent  by  a  causeway,  has  always  repre- 
sented the  ideal  town  of  the  mariner.  It  was,  as  it 
were,  a  huge  ship  anchored  to  the  rocks.  Many 
an  adventurous  sailor  and  explorer  has  hailed  from 
this  town  by  the  sea,  among  them  Jacques  Cartier, 
the  discoverer  of  Canada,  and  Jean  Cadnec,  a  bold 
mariner,  who,  having  landed  on  the  island  of 
Madagascar,  so  won  the  hearts  of  the  natives  that 
they  made  him  their  king.  But  after  a  few  years 
he  was  seized  with  that  homesickness  which  is 
sure  to  overcome  the  Breton  absent  from  his  Prov- 
ince, and  he  planned  to  return  to  his  own  country. 
So  beloved  by  his  subjects  had  he  become  that  they 

48 


ST.  MALO  AND  CHATEAUBRIAND  49 

preferred  him  dead  to  absent  and  in  order  to  keep 
him  to  themselves,  affectionately  poisoned  him. 
Still  another  St.  Maloin  on  the  list  of  famous  mari- 
ners was  Duguay-Trouin.  His  name  has  taken  on 
somewhat  of  the  fabulous,  so  ubiquitous  and  all- 
conquering  was  he,  whether  the  hostile  fleet  were 
English,  Dutch  or  Spanish. 

The  streets  of  St.  Malo  are  narrow  and  gloomy. 
But  mount  the  ramparts  and  make  a  tour  of  the 
city.  From  these  the  view  of  land  and  sea  is  su- 
perb. Landward,  the  valley  of  the  Ranee  smil- 
ingly follows  the  course  of  its  river,  and  seaward 
we  have  a  broad  ocean  view,  with  Dinard  close  at 
hand.  On  a  granite  rock  which  at  high  tide  is  en- 
tirely surrounded  by  the  sea,  is  the  tomb  of  Cha- 
teaubriand. The  simple  low  cross — whether  from 
Christian  humility  or  from  vanity  of  the  Poet — 
bears  no  inscription  indicating  the  name  of  him 
who  is  entombed  within  the  granite  rock.  In  a 
chamber  of  our  Hotel  de  France,  which  bears  the 
number  five,  Chateaubriand  was  born  in  1770. 
His  name  is  held  in  great  honour  in  St.  Malo 
where  his  house  and  tomb  are  visited  by  travellers, 
his  statue  is  on  the  chief  public  square  and  his 
portrait — that  by  Girondet,  painted  in  1809,  al- 
ways the  favorite  one — is  in  the  museum. 

Not  too  distant  for  an  agreeable  excursion  is  the 
Chateau  at  Combourg,  where  the  childhood  of 
Chateaubriand  was  passed.  His  account  of  that 
dreary  chateau — the  stern,  unsympathetic,  tyran- 


50  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

nical  father — the  timid,  frightened  mother — the 
awe-struck  brother  and  sister  sitting  in  the  dark 
corner  holding  hands — the  lonely  days  and  nights 
passed  by  the  boy  in  a  remote  attic  of  the  chateau 
— the  one  ray  of  sunshine  being  the  loving  friend- 
ship of  the  sister  Lucille — all  these  chapters  are 
poignant — unforgetable. 

The  young  Chateaubriand  was  a  dreamer.  But 
his  father's  plans  were  for  practical  studies. 
Hence  he  mastered  his  logarithms  at  the  college 
of  Dol,  consoling  himself  for  this  drudgery  by 
reading  a  good  deal  of  Horace.  From  Dol  to  the 
college  of  Dinan,  after  which  he  was  sent  to  Brest 
to  study  the  art  of  naval  construction.  It  appears 
that  he  had  a  habit  of  peering  beyond  the  ship- 
yard far  out  upon  the  sea.  Practical  studies  van- 
ished in  dream's  vagaries.  Finding  that  his 
father's  plans  were  likely  to  end  in  nothing,  they 
tried  the  mother's — to  make  a  priest  of  him.  But 
when  we  follow  this  young  Breton  out  into  the 
world,  it  is  not  as  priest.  He  is  still  only  a 
dreamer. 

Paris  was  on  the  verge  of  a  Revolutionary  strug- 
gle. Malesherbes,  who  was  a  family  connection, 
took  pity  on  the  young  man  and  sent  him  off  upon 
those  travels  which  brought  him  to  our  shores. 
This  was  in  1791.  Armed  with  letters  to  General 
Washington,  he  embarks  at  St.  Malo  and  lands  in 
Baltimore,  which  he  describes  as  "a  pretty  town, 
clean  and  animated."     His  impressions  read  to- 


FRANCOIS    AUGUSTE    RENE    DE    CHATEAUBRIAND 

1768-1848 


ST.  MALO  AND  CHATEAUBRIAND  51 

day  are  curious  and  interesting.  For  instance  he 
finds  "Philadelphia  lacking  in  ancient  monuments, 
and  the  people  have  customs  rather  than  man- 
ners— a  society  without  ancestry  and  without 
souvenirs,  but  great  elegance  in  clothing,  luxury 
in  equipage,  frivolity  in  conversation  and  immor- 
ality in  the  banking  houses." 

Boston  makes  a  happy  escape.  Recalling  the 
impressions  of  Philadelphia,  one  trembles  at  the 
thought  of  the  opinion  our  traveller  might  have 
had  of  the  city  on  Beacon  Hill.  But  when  our 
explorer  visits  that  town  it  is  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  making  a  pilgrimage  to  Lexington  to  salute 
the  first  battlefield  of  American  Liberty.  He 
writes :  "I  have  seen  the  Field  of  Lexington.  Like 
the  traveller  to  Thermopylae  I  stood  there  silent 
and  reverent."  He  finds  New  York  gay,  crowded 
and  commercial. 

He  gives  his  first  impressions  of  General  Wash- 
ington of  whom  he  speaks  as  "The  Dictator."  See- 
ing him  pass  in  a  carriage  he  writes:  "According 
to  my  ideas  Washington  was  nothing  less  than  a 
Cincinnatus,  and  Cincinnatus  in  an  ordinary  car- 
riage upset  somewhat  my  Roman-Republic  ideas. 
But  when  I  took  my  letters  of  introduction  to  this 
great  man  I  found  in  him  the  simplicity  of  the  old 
Roman."  We  find  that  he  was  cordially  received 
by  General  Washington,  and,  winning  his  way  by 
some  happy  response,  was  invited  to  dinner.  Long 
afterward,  in  1822,  he  writes  of  this  meeting:  "I 


52  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

am  happy  in  the  remembrance  that  his  eyes  have 
rested  upon  me.  There  is  virtue  in  the  glance  of  a 
great  man." 

He  finds  his  mission  as  explorer  rather  sterile, 
for  he  had  started  with  great  ideas  concerning  the 
North-West  Passage.  But  he  conscientiously 
crossed  the  Blue  Mountains,  and,  arriving  at  Chil- 
licothe,  he  encounters  the  muse  of  his  future  ro- 
mance "Natchez."  And  on  the  shores  of  the 
river  Ohio  he  finds  that  the  New  World  possesses 
ancient  monuments.  In  the  mounds  of  that  region 
he  sees  the  debris  of  ancient  civilization.  More- 
over he  discovers  what  an  American  sunset  is  like, 
and  he  paints  it  on  future  pages.  And  he  sees 
Niagara,  and  visits  the  Indian  Nations.  But  as 
explorer  and  recorder  he  is  far  more  poetic  and 
romantic  than  practical,  and  his  observations  yield 
their  only  harvest  in  his  three  books:  "Rene," 
"Atala"  and  "Natchez."  His  temperament  fitted 
him  for  the  place  he  held  in  French  literature — 
as  pioneer  in  the  Romantic  School  of  writers  in 
which  Lamartine,  Alfred  de  Vigny,  Victor  Hugo, 
Alfred  de  Musset  and  Beranger  find  their  place. 
As  years  pass  we  see  Chateaubriand  in  many  and 
diverse  phases.  As  royalist  banished  to  the  Isle 
of  Jersey  and  to  England,  where  in  London  in  a 
mansard  in  Holborn  he  reads  day  and  night  books 
ancient  and  modern.  We  note  the  passing  ro- 
mance of. Charlotte  Ives — a  romance  that  ended 
with  the  knowledge  that  her  chevalier  was  already 


ST.  MALO  AND  CHATEAUBRIAND  53 

married.  For  a  money-marriage  had  been  ar- 
ranged for  him  by  his  family  in  which  we  find 
only  feeble  glimmers  of  affection  late  in  life. 

From  England  back  to  Paris,  where  he  pub- 
lished his  first  book  and  frequented  the  teas  of 
Madame  O'Larry,  where  his  proud  and  melan- 
choly air  sufficed  to  make  him  the  hero  of  the 
circle.  Later  on  we  see  him  among  other  friends 
— Fontanes,  the  Delilles  and  the  delicate  and  ad- 
mirable Joubert,  who  became  his  affectionate  ad- 
mirer and  at  the  same  time  his  salutary  critic. 

The  publication  of  his  "Genius  of  Christianity," 
chancing  to  be  coincident  with  the  "Concordat," 
caused  France  to  believe  that  a  veritable  religious 
renaissance  had  dawned.  Chateaubriand  suddenly 
found  himself  famous. 

Then  comes  the  friendship  of  Madame  de  Beau- 
mont, which  was  a  real  providence  to  him.  At 
her  salon  in  the  Rue  Neuve-du-Luxembourg  he  be- 
came the  central  figure.  Joubert  thus  describes  the 
circle:  "It  was  a  modest  group — the  debris  of  the 
Terror — a  tranquil  intimate  company  gathered 
around  a  single  lamp,  to  whom  a  modest  glass  of 
eau  sucree  or  of  orangeade  sufficed  for  refresh- 
ment." Later  on  we  see  him  pay  hommage  to 
Napoleon  and  accept  a  position  in  the  Embassy  at 
Rome.  Madame  follows  him  and  dies  there. 
Then  came  years  of  alternate  triumph  and  failure, 
and  lastly,  himself  forty  -eight  and  Madame  Reca- 
mier  thirty-nine — from  1816  to  1848 — we  follow 


54  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

him  through  the  period  of  their  friendship.  He 
sends  her  a  letter  every  morning  and  the  invariable 
daily  visit  at  three  in  the  afternoon  afforded  the 
inhabitants  of  the  rue  de  Sevres,  it  is  said,  the 
means  of  regulating  their  timepieces.  At  the  fre- 
quent receptions  of  Madame  Recamier — the 
charming  hostess  of  the  Abbaye-aux-Bois — we  lis- 
ten to  him  in  the  reading  of  his  "Memoirs,"  which 
were  the  especial  preoccupation  of  his  hostess. 
Among  the  listeners  we  find  Miss  Edgeworth, 
Miss  Berry,  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  Benja- 
min Constant  and  Sainte-Beuve,  and  later  on 
Prosper  Merimee,  Toqueville,  Victor*  Hugo  and 
Lamartine.  And  then  in  1848,  he  dies  in  the  little 
house  in  the  rue  de  Babylon.  But  always  we  find 
Chateaubriand  turning  towards  Brittany  with 
loyal  affection.  Years  before  his  death  he  had 
chosen  for  his  tomb  this  rock  of  St.  Malo.  On 
July  fourth,  of  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  death 
of  Chateaubriand,  we  joined  a  brilliant  group  of 
French  men  of  letters,  gathered  in  the  old  town  of 
St.  Malo.  In  the  morning  high  mass  in  the  Cathe- 
dral and  a  sermon  by  Pere  Olivier,  the  eloquent 
preacher  of  Notre  Dame,  an  oration  by  Brune- 
tiere  in  the  afternoon  and  a  banquet  in  the  evening, 
an  immense  procession  in  which  the  peasants  of 
all  the  country  about  joined  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  tomb  where  eminent  Academicians  spoke — 
altogether  a  great  day  for  St.  Malo  and  an  honour 
to  the  name  of  Chateaubriand. 


ST.  MALO  AND  CHATEAUBRIAND  55 

A  few  feet  from  the  tomb  of  Chateaubriand  we 
find  the  birthplace  of  another  whose  fame  bids  fair 
to  equal  that  of  the  author  of  the  "Genius  of  Chris- 
tianity." But  we  like  better  to  speak  of  Felix  de 
Lamennais  under  the  oaks  of  La  Chenaie  a  little 
later  on  in  our  travels. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  FOLK-SONG  OF  ST.  MALO 

THE  narrow  streets  of  the  old  portion  of  St. 
Malo  are  gloomy  because  of  the  medieval  houses 
which,  like  those  we  saw  at  Vitre,  almost  meet  at 
top  above  the  narrow  streets,  so  that  from  the 
upper  windows  two  people  might  converse  in 
whispers.  That  such  opportunities  were  not  lost 
upon  the  Romeos  and  Juliets  of  the  olden  time  is 
apparent  from  a  folk-song  embodying  a  famous 
legend  of  St.  Malo. 

The  student  of  ancient  Breton  songs  finds  him- 
self under  infinite  obligations  to  a  woman.  It  was 
Marie  of  France  who  has  given  us  many  of  these 
old  songs,  translated  by  her  from  the  Keltic  into 
French  and  dedicated  to  Henry  II  of  England — 
lays  of  Tristram  and  Yseult,  and  of  Parsifal.  It 
is  to  her  we  owe  the  translation  of  this  old  song: 
"The  Nightingale." 

While  the  Breton  temperament  finds  its  most 
perfect  expression  in  poems  of  adventure,  in  fan- 
tastic tales,  strange  combats  of  men  and  beasts  of 

56 


A  FOLK-SONG  OF  ST.  MALO  57 

supernatural  power,  tales  of  magic  fountains  and 
miracles,  the  Breton  did  not  scorn  a  love  song  and 
a  very  human  one  such  as  we  now  quote. 

Like  the  Pontorson  ballad  which  we  have  given 
the  denouement  is  indicated  at  the  start.  We  fore- 
see the  pathetic  ending  in  the  two  verses  which 
form  the  Prologue.    Thus: 

"A  young  wife  of  St.  Malo  was  weeping  yesterday 

at  her  dormer  window, 
Alas!    Alas!     I  am  lost,  my  poor  nightingale  is 

dead." 

Then  the  story  begins : 

"Tell  me,  my  young  wife,  why  do  you  rise  so  otten? 
So  often  from  my  side,  so  often  from  your  bed  at 

midnight 

Bare  head  and  bare  feet?    Why  do  you  thus  rise 

at  midnight?" 
— "If  I  rise,  dear  lord,  at  midnight  from  my  bed, 
It  is  because  I  love  to  see  the  great  ships  come  and 

go  in  the  bay." 
' — "It  is  surely  not  for  a  ship  that  you  go  so  often 

to  the  window, 
It  is  not  for  a  ship,  neither  for  two  ships,  nor  for 

three, 
It  is  not  to  watch  the  ships  nor  is  it  for  the  moon 

and  stars. 
Madame,  tell  me  why  every  night  you  thus  rise?" 
— "I  rise  to  watch  my  little  baby  in  his  cradle." 


58  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

— "Neither  is  it  to  watch  a  baby — to  watch  a  baby 
sleeping, 

I  have  no  need  of  tales  being  told  to  me.  Why  do 
you  thus  rise?" 

— "My  little  old  man  do  not  be  anxious,  I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  you, 

It  is  the  nightingale  that  I  hear  every  night  sing- 
ing, 

Sitting  on  the  rosebush  in  the  garden. 

It  is  a  nightingale  that  I  hear  every  night.  He 
sings  so  sweetly, 

So  marvellously,  so  harmoniously  all  the  night 
long, 

All  the  night  long  when  the  sea  is  calm. 

When  the  old  Duke  heard  this  he  pondered  in  the 
depths  of  his  heart. 

When  the  old  Duke  heard  this  he  spake  thus  to 
himself: 

— "Whether  this  be  true  or  whether  it  be  false 

The  nightingale  shall  be  caught." 

Next  morning  upon  rising  he  sought  the  gardener. 

— "Good  gardener,  listen  to  me,  there  is  something 
which  troubles  me, 

There  is  in  the  thicket  a  nightingale, 

A  nightingale  that  does  nothing  but  sing  all  the 
night  long, 

That  sings  the  whole  night  long  so  loudly  that  it 
wakens  me. 

If  by  this  very  evening  you  shall  have  caught  it 

I  will  give  you  a  golden  sou." 


S3 


x  . 


HH       O 


A  FOLK-SONG  OF  ST.  MALO  59 

The  gardener,  having  heard  this,  laid  a  little  snare 
And  caught  the  nightingale  and  brought  it  to  his 

master. 
And  when  the  Duke  saw  it  he  laughed  from  the 

bottom  of  his  heart. 
And  he  strangled  it  and  threw  it  in  the  white  bosom 

of  his  wife. 

— "Here,  here,  my  young  wife,  here  is  your  pretty 

nightingale ; 
It  is  for  your  sake  that  I  have  strangled  it. 
I  dare  say,  my  beauty,  that  it  will  give  you  joy." 
Learning  the  news,  the  young  lover  at  his  dormer 

over  the  way 
Said  sadly:  "We  are  suspected,  my  sweet  one, 

and  I, 
And  never  again  shall  I  see  her  at  her  window 
At  midnight  in  the  moonlight  as  I  was  wont  to  do." 

The  thesis  of  this  song,  "The  Nightingale,"  is 
quite  popular  with  the  Breton.  Given  an  old  and 
jealous  husband,  a  young  and  beautiful  wife,  and 
an  admiring  young  man  at  a  distance  and  the  cast 
is  complete.  There  are  three  distinct  Bluebeard 
legends  in  Breton  folk-lore,  the  most  thrilling  of 
which  has  been  wonderfully  told  by  Leconte  de 
Lisle  in  his  "Poemes  Barbares,"  but  of  these  later 
on. 

A  ferry  crossing  of  fifteen  minutes  brings  one 
from  St.  Malo  to  Dinard,  the  most  fashionable  sea- 


6o  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

shore  resort  in  France.  To  heighten  its  attraction 
for  Americans  it  is  named  the  Newport  of  France. 
To  a  serious  traveller  in  Brittany  Dinard  has  lit- 
tle to  say.  But  a  charm  lingers  on  the  cliffs  of  St. 
Enogat,  a  mile  from  Dinard.  Almost  the  first 
letter,  perhaps  the  very  first  written  by  Robert 
Browning  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  was  ad- 
dressed to  his  friend  Lord  Leighton.  A  sentence 
from  this  letter  gives  the  immediate  plans  of  the 
Poet  thus :  "I  shall  go  to  some  quiet  place  in  France 
to  get  right  again — I  don't  mean  to  live  with  any- 
body, even  my  own  family,  but  to  occupy  myself 
thoroughly,  etc."  In  August — Mrs.  Browning 
having  died  in  June — we  find  him  at  St.  Enogat. 
On  these  cliffs  he  used  to  take  those  long  lonely 
walks  described  in  his  letters. 


CHAPTER  X 

DINARD,    DINAN   AND   EXCURSIONS 

INSTEAD  of  wasting  time  in  Dinard  let  us  board 
the  little  steamer  that  plies  the  river  Ranee  from 
St.  Malo  to  Dinan.  The  valley  of  the  Ranee  is 
a  continuous  scene  of  rocks  and  verdure,  of  sunny 
shores,  of  old  manor  houses  and  castles  of  feudal 
Brittany  and  gay  villas  of  modern  Brittany.  For 
not  until  we  reach  Finistere  shall  we  really  find 
our  unspoiled  Province,  although  a  romantic  in- 
terest pervades  this  section  through  which  we  are 
travelling. 

Our  boat  passes  the  tower  of  Solidor — "Ram- 
pared  Solidor"  of  Browning's  poem  "Herve  Riel." 
Not  until  we  approach  Dinan  do  we  see  the  cha- 
teau de  la  Belliere  with  its  seven  octagonal  chim- 
neys with  capitals  and  pinnacles — otherwise  a  plain 
structure  of  granite,  as  melancholy  as  the  avenue 
of  fir-trees  leading  to  the  entrance.  It  was  at  la 
Belliere  that  Typhaine,  the  wife  of  Du  Guesclin, 
spent  the  greater  part  of  her  life.  Here  she 
wrought  her  tapestries,  prayed  in  her  oratory,  con- 

61 


62  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

ducted  the  affairs  of  her  household  and  here  she 
died.  In  her  chamber  we  see  a  fine  tapestry,  a 
prie  Dieu  and  a  Crucifix. 

Typhaine  Du  Guesclin  had  the  reputation  of  be- 
ing a  clever  woman.  The  blue  stocking  of  her 
Province,  it  would  appear — and  she  seems  beside 
to  have  been  a  paragon  of  beauty,  sweetness  and 
devotion.  She  loved  her  rather  ferocious  husband 
from  that  day  when  she  saw  him  as  we  did,  an  un- 
known competitor,  enter  the  lists  at  the  tournament 
at  Rennes  and  win  the  laurels  from  his  rivals.  It 
was  whispered  about  among  the  castles  of  the 
Ranee  that  Typhaine  was  versed  in  the  science  of 
astrology.  But  perhaps  her  chief  skill  lay  in  di- 
vining the  nature  of  her  warrior  husband  and 
turning  his  prowess  into  generous  and  patriotic 
channels.  For  her  biographers  have  called  her: 
"The  conscience  of  Du  Guesclin."  She  may  or 
may  not  have  lingered  among  the  chimneys  of  her 
castle  to  consult  the  constellations,  but  she  knew 
how  to  read  the  heart  of  her  lord  which  she  be- 
lieved to  be  just  and  generous.  Truly  the  walls  of 
La  Belliere  five  and  a  half  centuries  ago  sheltered 
two  very  exceptional  personages. 

fimile  Souvestre  has  described  Dinan  as  "cor- 
seted in  antique  walls,  dotted  with  smiling  little 
houses  and  embroidered  with  flower  gardens." 
This  description  is  as  true  as  it  is  poetic.  Such  is 
Dinan  to-day.  But  it  is  the  story  of  the  ancient 
Dinan  town  of  the  old  dukes  and  counts,  scene  of  so 


DINARD,   DINAN   AND  EXCURSIONS         63 

many  thrilling  adventures  of  the  knights  of  medie- 
val history  that  most  interest  the  traveller.  The 
town  is  placed  boldly  upon  a  height  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  on  the  left  shore  of  the  Ranee  and 
thus  occupied  an  impregnable  position  in  time  of 
war.  A  statue  of  Du  Guesclin  on  the  public  square 
marks  the  scene  of  the  famous  duel  between  him 
and  Canterbury,  fought  in  the  presence  of  the  most 
valiant  knights  and  noble  dames  of  Brittany  and 
ending  in  the  proud  victory  of  the  Breton  Cap- 
tain. Narrow  and  crooked  streets  with  ancient 
houses  are  numerous. 

The  environs  of  Dinan  claim  special  attention. 
A  drive  of  four  miles  brings  us  to  the  ruins  of  a 
sixteenth  century  castle.  Some  splendid  granite 
walls  and  an  octagonal  three-storied  tower  of  the 
style  of  the  Renaissance  with  beautifully  carved 
windows  are  all  that  remain  of  the  castle  of  La 
Garaye.  But  the  avenue,  seven  hundred  feet  long, 
with  its  double  rows  of  beech  trees,  is  as  beautiful 
now  as  in  the  days  when  count  and  countess  gal- 
loped beneath  its  shade  among  the  gay  folk  of  the 
country  and  their  guests.  For  La  Garaye  was 
noted  for  its  hospitalities  and  the  extravagant  pur- 
suit of  pleasure  on  the  part  of  its  host.  But  mis- 
fortune came.  The  Lord  of  La  Garaye  became  an 
invalid,  and  the  Countess  was  crippled  from  a  fall 
from  her  horse,  after  which  both  seemed  to  have 
been  little  less  than  saints.  They  went  to  Paris, 
where  they  studied  medicine,  making  diseases  of 


64  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

the  eye  a  specialty,  and  afterwards  built  hospitals 
on  their  estates,  the  ruins  of  which  we  find  to-day. 
Here  they  nursed  the  sick  among  the  poor  of  all 
the  country  about,  devoting  the  remaining  days  of 
their  lives  to  this  occupation.  The  story  has  now 
become  only  the  "Legend  of  La  Garaye,"  but  the 
roses  still  clamber  and  blossom  upon  the  ruined 
tower  of  their  castle.  We  gathered  a  handful  of 
the  loveliest,  for  we  had  learned  that  the  burial 
place  of  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  Castle  was  out- 
side a  little  church  in  the  parish  of  Taden,  a  few 
miles  distant,  and  we  had  thought  of  placing  some 
of  these  very  roses  upon  their  tombs.  This  pious 
pilgrimage  was  made  the  next  day.  The  little 
church  of  Taden  is  queer  and  ancient.  We  found 
the  tombs — very  desolate  and  neglected  they  were 
— in  one  of  the  angles  of  the  outer  walls  of  the 
church,  the  carvings  so  nearly  obliterated  that  we 
made  out  the  names  and  devices  with  difficulty. 
We  laid  the  roses  upon  the  two  barren,  dusty 
graves — the  tribute  of  a  passer-by,  a  foreigner, 
three  hundred  years  after  the  events  which  had 
made  the  record  of  this  Lord  and  Lady  Bountiful 
worthy  of  homage. 

The  Honourable  Mrs.  Norton  follows  a  part  of 
the  legend  in  one  of  her  poems,  and  Mrs.  Louise 
Chandler  Moulton  has  written  a  poem  with  the 
title:  "The  Roses  of  La  Garaye,"  in  which  she 
twines  a  light  modern  fancy  about  the  legend. 

There  are  other  excursions  to  be  made  from 


DINARD,   DINAN   AND   EXCURSIONS         65 

Dinan.  To  the  Abbey  of  Lehon  only  a  mile  dis- 
tant, and  to  what  remains  of  the  castle  of  Coetguen. 
The  beggars  of  the  C6tes-du-Nord  still  sing  an 
ancient  ballad,  "The  Lady  of  Coetguen,"  which 
tells  the  story  of  the  beautiful  Blanche  of  St.  Malo, 
married  to  a  Lord  of  Coetguen;  tells  how  she  was 
imprisoned  in  the  dungeon  of  the  great  tower  and 
how  she  died  in  her  gloomy  prison.  But  space 
forbids  the  telling  of  all  the  romantic  tales  which 
cluster  about  the  ruined  castle  of  the  Ranee — tales 
of  feudal  Brittany  and  of  her  dukes  and  counts. 


CHAPTER  XI 

FELIX  DE  LAMENNAIS 

BUT  there  is  one  excursion  to  be  made  from 
Dinan  which  lies  very  near  the  heart. 

To  those  who  sympathize  with  the  experiences 
and  sorrows  of  a  man  unfortunately  born  a  cen- 
tury before  his  time — to  such  as  appreciate  the 
genius  and  the  sacrifices  of  Felix  de  Lamennais, 
this  bit  of  paradise  where  he  passed  the  only 
happy  years  of  his  life  becomes  the  shrine  of  a 
loving  pilgrimage.  Doubtless  many  of  us,  at- 
tracted by  the  charming  mention  made  by  Mr. 
Mathew  Arnold  of  Maurice  de  Guerin,  had  our 
first  glimpse  of  La  Chenaie  from  the  pages  of  the 
journal  and  letters  of  this  young  poet  of  the  south 
of  France — records  of  the  period  when  he  was  one 
of  the  group  of  disciples  of  the  host  of  this  fine  old 
manor  house.  The  place  possesses  all  the  beauty 
ascribed  to  it  by  the  pen  of  the  young  poet  who 
had  shivered  through  the  rather  gloomy  winter 
months.  But  it  is  far  more  valuable  through  its 
association  with  the  Breton  whose  printed  words 

66 


FELIX  DE  LAMENNAIS  67 

not  only  stirred  the  public  of  Paris,  but  made  them- 
selves felt  at  the  Vatican.  Here  lived  a  man  whom 
France  scorned  and  whom  she  buried  like  a 
pauper.  Sixty  years  later  his  ideas  came  to  be,  to 
a  certain  extent,  those  of  Pope  Leo  XIII  and  of 
eminent  sociologists.  Some  one  has  defined  him 
as  a  sociologist  in  the  Church,  in  other  words  a 
"Christian  Socialist." 

At  St.  Malo  we  saw  the  house  in  which  he  was 
born  in  1782 — thirteen  years  after  Chateaubriand. 
But  it  is  at  La  ChenaTe  that  we  like  best  to  meet 
him.  Hither  he  was  sent  after  the  death  of  his 
parents  to  spend  his  boyhood  in  the  charge  of  an 
uncle  who  was  owner  of  this  property.  Although 
he  was  ten  years  of  age  and  remarkably  intelligent, 
he  scarcely  knew  how  to  read.  But  there  was  a 
library  at  La  Chena'fe — a  library  in  which  there 
were  not  only  books  of  piety  for  edification,  but 
classics  of  Greece  and  Rome  and  the  works  of 
Voltaire,  Montaigne  and  Rousseau,  as  well  as 
books  of  theology  and  ecclesiastical  history.  To 
one  analyzing  the  mental  and  moral  character  of 
Lamennais  the  man,  the  catalogue  of  the  library 
in  which  the  young  Felix  browsed  is  a  factor  of 
importance.  The  boy  was  given  to  escapades  of 
various  kinds  and  the  uncle,  by  way  of  punishment, 
was  in  the  habit  of  locking  him  in  this  library. 
For  the  sake  of  amusing  himself,  he  soon  learned 
to  read.  After  which  he  devoured  everything 
which  came  to  hand.    His  passion  for  reading  be- 


68  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

came  such  that  he  used  to  commit  some  little  fault 
in  order  to  secure  a  fresh  imprisonment. 

In  his  twenties  they  made  him  priest.  The 
world  now  knows  the  unintentional  wrong  done 
to  the  soul  of  the  man  who,  under  peculiar  mental 
conditions  which  he  could  not  master,  allowed 
himself  to  be  led  into  what  proved  a  false  step. 

After  a  few  years  he  is  in  Paris  editing  the 
newspaper  L'Avenir,  aided  by  Lacordaire  and 
Montalembert,  at  that  time  his  ardent  disciples. 

Of  a  nature  as  noble  as  it  was  sincere,  ardent  and 
visionary,  Felix  de  Lamennais  dreamed  of  a  kind 
of  progressive  Christianity.  He  indicated  to  the 
Church  the  only  course  that  could  lead  it  to  a 
reconciliation  with  modern  nations.  Every  word 
he  uttered  or  wrote  was  chivalric  and  disinterested. 
He  besought  the  Church  to  separate  itself  from 
the  debris  of  kings  and  kingdoms,  and  to  lend 
itself  to  consider  the  miseries  and  sufferings  of  the 
people — to  apply  the  balm  of  comfort.  He  be- 
lieved in  a  universal  transformation  of  Society 
under  the  influence  of  Catholicism.  He  sought 
to  reconcile  Religion  and  Liberty.  Meanwhile  he 
held  Rome  and  Gregory  XVI  in  affection.  He 
believed  the  Pope  could  but  sympathize  with  the 
aims  and  hopes  of  L'Avenir. 

The  bold  doctrines  of  Lamennais  took  every- 
body by  surprise — clerical  and  laity.  The  young 
clergy  sympathized  with  him  and  at  La  Chenai'e 
a  group  of  enthusiastic  disciples  gather.     There 


FELIX  DE  LAMENNAIS  69 

were  Lacordaire,  Montalembert,  Maurice  de 
Guerin,  the  Abbe  Gerbert,  Charles  St.  Foi  and 
others.  What  a  household  it  was!  A  lovely  house 
on  the  border  of  the  fine  forest  of  Coetguen,  of 
cheerful  aspect,  coiffed  in  mansards.  Opposite  the 
house  across  the  lawn  a  fine  chapel;  beyond  a  large 
and  beautiful  garden.  Inside  the  house  there  were 
books  and  fine  conversation;  outside  there  were 
sunshine,  birds  and  tranquillity.  It  was  in  this  en- 
vironment that  this  group  of  enthusiastic  young 
men  gathered  about  a  man  devoid  of  exterior 
grace,  small,  plain,  with  the  ascetic  look  which  we 
see  in  the  face  of  Dante.  But  under  his  inspira- 
tion what  studies  in  Art,  History,  Philosophy  and 
Belles  Lettres  went  on!  Years  after,  Charles  St. 
Foi  wrote  of  him :  "He  had  the  timidity  of  a  child ; 
if  you  looked  at  him  he  was  disturbed,  if  you 
praised  him  he  was  embarrassed,  reduced  to  si- 
lence. What  must  one  do!  Listen  to  him  as  a 
disciple  listens  to  a  master." 

Maurice  de  Guerin,  in  a  letter  dated  1833, 
writes:  "In  the  evening  after  supper  we  gathered 
in  the  salon.  He  throws  himself  upon  or  rather 
into  an  immense  sofa — an  old  piece  of  furniture 
in  crimson  ribbed  velvet,  which  stands  under  the 
portrait  of  his  grandmother,  in  which  one  notes 
some  of  the  features  of  the  grandson.  It  is  the 
hour  for  conversation.  One  entering  the  salon  at 
this  hour  will  see  there  in  the  corner  a  head — little 
more  than  the  head,  the  rest  of  the  body  being  ab- 


70  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

sorbed  by  the  sofa — eyes  shining  like  rubies,  voice 
sometimes  grave,  sometimes  ironical,  and  now  and 
then  bursts  of  shrill  laughter.  It  is  our  man — it 
is  Lamennais." 

But  Rome  regarded  him  and  his  newspaper  with 
suspicion.  The  Pope  had  hitherto  held  him  in 
esteem  and  admiration — had  even  designated  him 
for  the  position  of  Cardinal.  But  a  Sociologist 
within  the  Church  was  a  thing  not  to  be  consid- 
ered. And  Rome  frowned  upon  the  newspaper, 
and  its  group  of  collaborators.  The  moral  situa- 
tion became  embarrassing  to  Lamennais  and  he 
decided  to  go  to  Rome  and  take  council  upon  the 
course  to  pursue. 

His  reverence  for  the  Pope  was  perfect.  "And 
what  if  we  are  censured?"  asks  Montalembert  en 
route.  "We  cannot  be  censured,"  responded  La- 
mennais, so  absolute  was  his  faith  in  his  cause  and 
in  the  Pope. 

There  are  few  journeys  on  record  that,  in  the 
present  light,  seem  so  pathetic  as  this  of  these 
"three  pilgrims  for  God  and  Liberty"  as  Lamen- 
nais, Lacordaire  and  Montalembert  called  them- 
selves. Zola  in  his  "Rome"  has  taken  his  Pierre 
Froment  through  paths  and  experiences  that  pre- 
sent many  parallels  to  those  of  Felix  de  Lamen- 
nais. The  resemblance  is  too  striking  to  escape 
attention.  Zola  might  have  found — possibly  did 
find — the  model  for  the  plot  of  his  "Rome"  in  this 
episode  in  the  life  of  Lamennais. 


FELIX  DE  LAMENNAIS  71 

"Oh!  the  pitiless  attitude  of  Rome  toward  this 
great  apologist  for  the  Church!"  exclaims  a  French 
writer  of  our  day. 

Felix  de  Lamennais  had  seen  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  the  predestined  emancipator  of 
nations.  He  had  believed  profoundly  in  his  mis- 
sion both  social  and  religious.  To-day  he  would 
be  welcomed  by  the  great  and  good  man  at  the 
Vatican.  Even  after  the  death  of  Gregory  XVI, 
the  new  Pope  Pius  IX  sought  this  straying  sheep 
and  sent  him  a  message.  "Tell  him  I  am  waiting 
to  bestow  my  benediction  upon  him  and  to  embrace 
him." 

It  was  too  late.  Lamennais,  disillusionized,  has 
broken  with  the  Church  and  given  himself  to  the 
People.  His  "Book  of  the  People"  and  "The  Past 
and  Future  of  the  People,"  written  during  the 
years  spent  in  the  prison  of  St.  Pelagie,  where  he 
was  held  as  a  political  prisoner,  treat  of  social  and 
civil  ethics,  and  might  safely  serve  as  handbooks 
for  discontented  masses  to-day.  His  book,  "Words 
of  a  Believer,"  published  after  his  break  with  the 
Church,  produced  great  excitement  in  Paris. 
Sainte  Beuve  tells  us  that  "even  in  the  printing  of- 
fice among  the  typesetters  the  enthusiasm  was  so  in- 
tense that  the  work  came  to  a  standstill."  In  fact 
this  little  book,  scarcely  more  than  a  brochure, 
caused  a  tumult  in  public  opinion,  a  chaos  of  ideas 
and  sentiments.  It  had  its  reading  at  Rome  and 
it  was  read  by  every  blue-bloused  workman  in 


-J2  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Paris.  A  contemporary  wrote:  "A  priest  is  stir- 
ring up  all  Europe.  What  has  he  done?  He  has 
changed — not  God,  but  the  manner  of  serving 
Him.  He  has  made  of  the  Cross  of  Christ  a  stand- 
ard of  Liberty."  Literary  critics  pronounced  the 
little  book  a  work  of  art — a  great  poem. 

The  French  Government  called  it  a  "dangerous 
book."  In  this  Jeremiah  lamenting  the  fate  of 
nations  it  saw  an  enemy  to  be  feared.  In  order  to 
show  the  real  spirit  and  motive  of  this  man, 
spurned  by  Rome,  scorned  by  France,  persecuted 
by  the  Government,  let  us  read  together  the  short 
preface  of  this  so-called  "dangerous  book,"  "The 
Words  of  a  Believer": 

"To  the  people.  This  book  has  been  written 
chiefly  for  you.  It  is  to  you  I  offer  it.  May  it,  in 
the  midst  of  so  many  ills  which  are  your  inherit- 
ance, of  so  many  griefs  which  oppress  you,  revive 
and  console  you.  To  you  who  are  bearing  the 
burden  of  the  day,  I  would  that  it  might  be  to 
your  poor  tired  souls  what  the  shade  of  a  tree  in  a 
corner  of  the  field  at  midday  is  to  him  who  has 
toiled  all  the  morning  under  the  burning  rays  of 
the  sun.  You  are  living  in  evil  times,  but  these 
times  will  pass.  After  the  rigors  of  the  winter 
Providence  brings  a  more  gentle  season,  and  the 
little  bird  in  its  song  blesses  the  kind  hand  which 
has  brought  him  warmth  and  plenty  and  his  mate 
in  the  warm  nest.  Hope  on  and  love  on.  Hope 
softens   everything   and   Love   makes   everything 


FELIX  DE  LAMENNAIS  73 

easy.  Be  patient.  Pray  to  God  that  he  may  lessen 
your  trials.  Now  it  is  Man  who  judges  and  who 
punishes.  Soon  it  will  be  He  who  will  judge. 
Happy  he  who  shall  behold  this  justice.  I  am 
old.  Listen  to  the  words  of  an  old  man.  The 
earth  is  dry  and  melancholy  but  it  will  revive. 
The  breath  of  the  wicked  will  not  always  pass  over 
it  like  a  flame  which  consumes.  Whatever  hap- 
pens Providence  desires  that  it  should  serve  for 
your  instruction  in  order  that  you  shall  know  how 
to  be  good  and  just  when  your  hour  shall  come. 

"When  those  who  have  abused  power  shall  have 
passed  away  like  the  debris  in  a  storm,  then  you 
will  understand  that  good  alone  is  enduring,  and 
you  will  fear  to  soil  the  air  which  the  winds  of 
heavens  have  purified.  Prepare  your  souls  for  this 
hour,  for  it  is  not  far  distant.  It  approaches.  Re- 
form that  in  yourselves  which  needs  tq  be  re- 
formed. Exercise  yourselves  in  all  the  virtues 
and  love  one  another  as  the  Saviour  of  the  human 
race  has  loved  you,  even  unto  death." 

Through  all  these  years  Lamennais  was  appre- 
ciated by  the  few  and  calumniated  by  the  many. 
Intrigues  sprang  up  on  every  side.  Lamennais 
was  proud  in  his  revolt.  His  soul  was  tormented, 
but  his  heart  was  warm  for  mankind.  He  was  in- 
deed a  Jeremiah  lamenting  over  the  fates  of  na- 
tions, but  he  did  something  besides.  Some  one 
has  said  of  him:  "He  roared  like  a  lion,  but  he 
wept  like  a  mother." 


74  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

It  is  a  relief  to  see  him  done  with  affairs 
at  Rome,  and  in  1848,  representing  the  democracy 
of  Paris  in  the  Assembly  as  his  friend  Beranger 
had  done,  even  though  his  utterances  from  the  Ex- 
treme Left  land  him  in  the  prison  of  St.  Pelagie. 

Still  more  agreeable  is  it  to  note  his  last  years, 
even  though  they  were  years  of  extreme  poverty. 
His  great  love  of  music  won  him  the  friendship 
of  Liszt,  Chopin  and  George  Sand.  Among  his 
friends  were  Chateaubriand,  Lamartine,  Arago 
and  Mazzini.  His  pages  upon  Gothic  Art  and 
upon  the  Beautiful  in  Music  prove  him  an  ardent 
lover  of  the  arts.  His  analysis  of  the  genius  of 
Beethoven  has  been  pronounced  a  masterpiece. 
George  Sand  gives  her  first  impressions  of  Lamen- 
nais  whom  Liszt  presented  to  her  thus:  "He  was 
small,  thin,  poverty-stricken,  and  seemed  to  have 
the  merest  breath  of  life  in  his  body.  But  what  a 
head!  His  clear  eyes  sparkled — the  narrow  fore- 
head marked  with  vertical  lines — a  smiling,  mobile 
mouth — altogether  a  face  strongly  marked  for  a 
life  of  renunciation  and  contemplation."  In  the 
character  of  Spiridion  George  Sand  has  delineated 
the  traits  of  Lamennais  as  she  comprehended  them. 

Felix  de  Lamennais  died  in  poverty,  thinking 
to  the  last  of  the  people  and  their  wrongs.  At  his 
death  the  people  mourned  their  loss.  But  they 
were  not  permitted  to  follow  him  to  his  burial. 
The  Government  forestalled  any  possible  demon- 
stration of  affection  on  their  part  by  surrounding 


FELIX  DE  LAMENNAIS  75 

the  small  procession  of  intimate  friends  with 
squads  of  policemen.  He  was  buried  in  the  Pot- 
ters Field  of  Pere  Lachaise. 

To-day  France  would  gladly  gather  the  ashes 
of  this  son  of  Brittany  and  raise  a  monument  above 
them,  but  no  one  knows  the  place  of  his  burial. 
A  street  in  the  quarter  of  the  Champs  Elysees 
bears  his  name;  scholars,  statesmen  and  sociologists 
talk  and  write  of  him  and  the  Church  accepts,  to 
a  marked  degree,  the  doctrines  for  holding  which 
he  was  condemned.  At  a  meeting  of  the  Catholic 
Club  on  the  rue  du  Luxembourg  in  Paris  several 
years  ago,  I  heard  a  distinguished  abbe,  in  closing 
a  lecture  on  Felix  de  Lamennais,  say:  "In  fact  the 
Church  to-day  needs  just  such  a  man  as  Felix  de 
Lamennais." 

Sitting  under  the  oaks  of  La  Chenai'e,  the  story 
of  his  life  is  vividly  recalled.  And  inside  the 
house  we  find  the  same  arrangement  of  rooms  as 
described  in  the  Journal  of  Maurice  de  Guerin. 
A  bust  of  Lamennais  on  the  mantel  in  the  salon  at- 
tests the  sympathy  of  the  occupant  of  the  place. 
Otherwise  there  is  no  trace  of  the  great  mind  that 
was  once  Master  here.  But  we  must  seek  him  in 
his  "Essays,"  in  his  "Words  of  a  Believer,"  in  his 
"Book  for  the  People."  His  translation  of  Dante 
and  of  the  "Imitations,"  to  which  he  added  his  own 
"Reflections"  are  the  only  books  that  at  any  time 
brought  him  an  income. 


CHAPTER  XII 

GUINGAMP,    PAIMPOL   AND    PIERRE   LOTI 

From  Dinan  we  travel  by  rail  to  Guingamp. 
One  visits  Guingamp  not  only  because  of  its  his- 
torical interests,  it  having  played  an  important  role 
in  the  Hundred  Years  war,  but  also  for  the  sake 
of  its  churches.  And  if  possible  plan  to  visit  Guin- 
gamp at  the  time  of  the  annual  Pardon  of  Notre- 
Dame  de  Bon  Secours,  which  occurs  on  the  Satur- 
day before  the  first  Sunday  in  July.  Each  Par- 
don has  its  special  features.  In  that  of  Guingamp 
the  great  procession  takes  place  in  the  evening. 
It  forms  and  sets  out  from  the  church  at  nine 
o'clock.  The  statue  of  the  Virgin,  one  of  the  Black 
Virgins  of  which  we  shall  speak  in  another 
place,  was  honoured  by  the  Pope  some  years  ago, 
a  crown  of  gold  being  brought  from  Rome  by 
a  papal  delegation.  The  Virgin  adorned  in  this 
crown  and  clothed  in  a  robe  of  cloth  of  gold,  is 
borne  in  state,  placed  upon  a  platform,  which  is 
carried  on  the  shoulders  of  ten  men  dressed  in 
white.     Every  person  in  the   procession — many 

76 


GUINGAMP,   PAIMPOL  AND  PIERRE  LOTI    77 

thousands  altogether — carries  a  lighted  candle  and 
the  effect  of  these  moving  myriads  of  lights  is  most 
beautiful.  Every  pilgrim  as  he  marches  sings  the 
familiar  Canticle  of  the  Virgin  of  Guingamp. 

A  famous  bit  of  old  Breton  music  is  the  march 
of  the  "Men  of  Guingamp,"  who  in  the  fourteenth 
century  raised  the  siege  held  by  the  English  and 
restored  Guingamp  to  its  rightful  possessor.  It  is 
always  the  favourite  march  of  the  Bards  all  over 
Brittany.  We  march  to  the  banquets  and  we 
march  from  the  banquets  always  to  the  measure 
of  this  old-time  tune,  which  is  also  sung  to  a  na- 
tional hymn.  "Oh!  Breiz  Izel."  Certain  musi- 
cians have  found  in  this  march  the  theme  em- 
ployed by  Wagner  in  his  wedding  March  in  Lo- 
hengren. 

From  Guingamp  our  travels  bring  us  among 
quite  another  type  of  Breton  life  and  character. 
At  Paimpol,  the  country  of  Pierre  Loti's  "Pech- 
eurs  d'Islande,"  we  shall  encounter  the  people 
whom  we  have  already  met  in  the  pages  of  that 
beautiful  book.  But  this  prose  poem  Paimpol, 
smiling  amid  her  rocks  unnoticed  by  the  traveller, 
even  now  retains  much  of  its  tranquillity  and 
charm. 

The  journey  from  Guingamp  to  Paimpol  is  a 
matter  of  several  hours  and  is  altogether  agree- 
able. How  well  we  recall  our  first  visit  there.  It 
was  in  the  deepening  twilight  of  a  Sunday  even- 
ing in  July  that  we  were  deposited  at  the  entrance 


78  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

of  the  Hotel  Michel,  which  faces  the  public 
square.  A  peculiar  fascination  caused  us  to  for- 
get the  dinner  hour  and  sent  us  wandering  about 
the  little  town.  We  knew  beforehand  that  Paim- 
pol  was  unusually  sad  this  year.  There  had  been 
many  disasters  in  the  Iceland  waters  and  scores 
of  widows  and  orphans  were  sorrowing  over  their 
losses.  Silence  and  melancholy  pervaded  the 
place. 

During  a  visit  at  Paimpol  a  few  months  before, 
we  had  witnessed  the  ceremonial  of  the  blessing 
of  the  fishing  boats  at  the  annual  departure,  which 
takes  place  at  the  end  of  winter.  The  boats, 
decked  with  flags,  lay  in  the  harbour  and  the  men 
already  on  board  awaited  the  benediction.  An 
altar  was  built  upon  the  quay,  on  which  the  queer 
little  faience  Virgin — Protector  of  sailors — was 
enthroned.  The  priest,  walking  under  a  canopy, 
bore  the  Holy  Sacrament.  Wives,  mothers,  sisters 
and  sweethearts  followed  in  procession.  The 
priest,  stopping  before  each  boat,  uttered  the  bene- 
diction. Then  we  had  seen  the  little  squadron  set 
out,  leaving  Paimpol  void  of  fathers,  husbands, 
brothers  and  lovers.  As  they  sailed  away  they 
sang  in  chorus  the  Hymn  of  Mary,  Star  of  the 
Sea,  and  the  women  watched  tearfully  each  little 
craft  until  it  disappeared  from  the  horizon.  How 
many  processions  of  women  have  I  watched  as 
they  passed  up  and  down  the  shore,  singing  in 
mournful  tones  that  time-honoured  hymn  of  de- 


GUINGAMP,  PAIMPOL  AND  PIERRE  LOTI    79 

parture.  It  is  a  prayer  to  Mary:  "Brillez  dans  le 
del  douce  etoile  d'or." 

This  year,  as  every  year,  the  same  ceremonial  of 
farewell.  But  August  was  at  hand.  News  of  dis- 
asters had  already  been  brought  back  by  a 
Government  ship  touching  at  Iceland.  As  we 
wandered  about  the  town  we  saw  only  women  and 
children.  Their  sabots  clicked  sadly  along  the 
narrow  streets.  The  door  of  the  little  church 
stands  open.  We  enter.  The  deepening  twilight 
turns  to  darkness  inside.  Here  and  there  white 
specks  dot  the  blackness.  The  eye  when  grown 
accustomed  discovers  in  these  the  white  coifs  of 
the  widows  of  Paimpol.  At  this  hour  they  gather 
in  the  church  to  pray  for  the  souls  of  their  lost 
ones.  We  slip  quietly  out,  leaving  the  sad  faces 
under  the  white  coifs  at  their  mournful  vespers. 

One  is  reminded  of  Pierre  Loti's  story  at  every 
turn.  On  the  public  square  we  pass  the  window 
where  poor  little  Gand  on  that  May  evening  when 
the  smell  of  the  hawthorne  blossoms  was  in  the 
air,  leaning  out  of  the  casement,  listened  to  the  sea 
and  thought  of  her  lover.  One  can  peep  inside 
the  very  room  which  furnished  the  setting  for  the 
exquisite  letter-writing  scene  of  the  third  chap- 
ter, in  which  Grandmother  Yvonne  and  the  poor 
girl  collaborated. 

And  mounted  in  a  donkey  cart  we  drive  along 
the  road  to  Ploubalasnec,  over  which  Gand  walked 
on  that  dreary  November  afternoon,  bent  on  seeing 


8o  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

the  house  and  family  of  her  lover,  who  with  that 
unaccountable  Breton  obstinacy  mingled  with  ex- 
treme shyness,  wouldn't  tell  his  love. 

In  the  hamlet  of  Porz-Even  we  find  the  little 
chapel  where  she  paused  to  read  the  gruesome  tab- 
lets and  noted  the  pathetic  votive  offerings.  It  is 
all  photographed  on  the  pages  of  the  book. 

But  a  pleasant  surprise  awaits  us  at  Porz-Even. 
For  we  find  Jean,  the  hero  of  the  book,  alive  and 
well,  instead  of  having  been  drowned  at  sea  as  the 
story  has  it.  We  see  him  stalking  over  the  rocks 
with  Sylvestre's  baby  boy  on  his  shoulder.  Yes, 
Sylvestre,  who,  after  all,  did  not  die  on  the  ship 
returning  from  the  war,  but  is  actually  off  on  the 
summer  fishing  voyage.  Even  dear  old  grand- 
mother Yvonne  we  find  still  in  the  flesh  and  sound 
in  mind,  her  proud  coif  crowning  her  grey  hair, 
and  not  the  least  awry  as  in  that  last  pathetic  chap- 
ter. We  make  acquaintance  with  all  these  good 
folk — the  veritable  models  of  the  story.  Jean 
shows  us  his  house  with  its  additional  second  story 
— an  uncommon  bit  of  splendor  for  Porz-Even! 
We  see  the  two  Breton  armoire  bedsteads  in  great 
state,  and  he  shows  us  many  photographs  of  Pierre 
Loti.  They  are  great  chums.  Then  he  brings 
good  Breton  cider — the  wine  of  the  Province  in 
which  in  the  quaint  faience  bowls  of  the  country 
we  all  drink  to  the  safe  return  of  Sylvestre.  All 
this  is  cheerful,  even  gay.  And  the  return  to  Paim- 
pol,  driving  our  absurd  little  donkey  over  the  route 


GUINGAMP,   PAIMPOL  AND  PIERRE   LOTI    8l 

from  Ploubalasnec,  is  made  with  the  joyful  sense 
of  having  found  something  which  we  had  thought 
to  be  lost. 

Each  Breton  town  has  its  typical  motif.  That 
of  Paimpol  is  in  a  minor  key.  The  melancholy, 
long,  flowing,  black  cloak  with  its  capote,  in  which 
the  widow  of  Paimpol  envelopes  herself,  accords 
with  the  tristesse  of  the  place.  M.  Anatole  Le 
Braz  pictures  Paimpol  in  three  words:  "La  Mer, 
l'amour,  la  mort." 

To  listen  to  the  Gregorian  plain  chant  in  the 
little  church,  to  see  the  widows  and  orphans  in  the 
cemetery  praying  at  the  make-believe  tombs  of  the 
drowned  men — for  each  fisherman  lost  at  sea  has  a 
place  in  the  burial  ground  ascribed  to  his  memory 
— all  this  is  to  see  and  know  Paimpol  and  to  catch 
its  motif.  Only  on  a  Sunday  is  this  possible,  as  on 
all  other  days  the  entire  population  is  at  work  in 
the  fields  or  in  their  houses. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TREGUIER,    ST.    YVES   AND   ERNEST   RENAN 

From  Paimpol  we  travel  to  Treguier,  a  matter 
of  several  hours'  journey. 

The  archaeologist  finds  in  Brittany  a  historical 
museum — Keltic  monuments,  Roman  remains  and 
architecture  of  the  Gothic  and  of  the  Renaissance 
period.  In  this  Department  through  which  we 
are  now  travelling — the  C6tes-du-Nord — several 
remarkable  instances  claim  a  visit.  The  ruins  of 
the  temple  of  LanlefT,  believed  by  some  archaeolo- 
gists to  be  Roman  in  its  construction,  still  remains 
a  puzzle  to  the  Savant.  The  exquisite  old  church 
St.  Runan,  near  Pluzunet,  is  a  gem.  And  in  an- 
other parish  near  Pontrieux  we  find  in  the  deserted 
chapel  Kermaria-an-Isquit  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury a  curious  mural  painting  representing  a  Danse 
Macabre,  in  which  Popes,  Kings  and  Nobles  join 
in  lugubrious  procession.  Much  of  this  queer 
frieze  has  been  covered  with  whitewash,  but  one 
sees  enough  to  know  that  the  work  possesses  con- 
siderable artistic  merit,  especially  in  respect  to  its 
colouring. 

82 


TREGUIER,  ST.  YVES  AND  ERNEST  RENAN    83 

Treguier  possesses  a  twofold  interest  to  the 
traveller,  as  being  the  birthplace  of  Ernest  Renan 
and  of  St.  Ives,  the  greatest  of  the  Breton  Saints. 
Treguier  was  an  old  town  before  Armorica  took 
the  name  of  Brittany.  In  the  fifth  century  Tud- 
wall,  the  Patron  of  the  Cathedral,  fleeing  from 
Great  Britain,  built  here  a  hermitage,  which 
served  as  refuge  for  his  companions  in  exile.  The 
hermitage  grew  into  a  monastery,  and  a  little  town 
grouped  itself  about  its  walls,  increasing  gradually 
until  it  formed  a  radius  of  several  miles.  The 
Bishop's  Palace,  an  admirable  Cathedral  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  to-day  accentuates  the  ecclesias- 
tical atmosphere  of  the  place.  One  of  the  towers 
of  the  Cathedral  is  of  the  Roman  style,  there  are 
some  remarkable  tombs  of  the  middle  age,  and  the 
stalls  are  artistically  sculptured,  portraying  the 
legend  of  St.  Tudwall  slaying  the  dragon  that  for- 
merly infested  the  country  about  Treguier.  Other 
sculptures  represent  a  legend  of  St.  Yves — a  legend 
which  we  shall  give  later.  The  cloister  is  very  in- 
teresting and  beautiful. 

Brittany  has  had  a  nobility  of  its  own,  entirely 
distinct  from  that  which  owes  its  titles  to  the  Kings 
of  France.  The  Revolution  made  havoc  with  this 
little  nest  of  monks  and  nobles.  The  bishops  fled 
to  England  and  the  nobility  were  under  a  cloud. 
The  bishopric  was  suppressed;  Treguier  was,  as 
it  were,  decapitated.  But  later  on  the  immense 
monastic  buildings  served  for  the  establishment  of 


84  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

an  ecclesiastical  college.  Treguier  resumed  its 
dignity.  But  neither  commerce  nor  industries  have 
ever  been  a  factor  in  its  growth. 

In  a  small  house  of  a  narrow  street  bearing  the 
misnomer  Grande  Rue,  on  January  27,  1823,  Er- 
nest Renan  wras  born  and  it  was  in  the  environment 
that  we  have  described  that  the  boy  grew  up.  That 
the  gloomy  atmosphere  of  the  place  had  something 
to  do  with  the  indestructible  bias  that  pervaded 
his  life,  his  "Souvenirs"  give  us  to  believe.  He 
tells  us  how  when  visiting  more  commercial  towns 
he  was  always  homesick — rhow  he  longed  for  the 
belfry  tower,  the  long  and  narrow  nave,  the  clois- 
ter and  the  fifteenth  century  tombs.  Only  when 
restored  to  the  company  of  knights  and  noble 
dames  sleeping  tranquilly  with  their  hounds  at 
their  feet  and  torches  in  their  hands  and  the  stone 
saints  ranged  in  their  niches  along  the  inner  walls, 
did  he  recover  himself.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  the 
little  boy  wandering  about,  dreaming  in  the  twi- 
light, in  the  Cathedral.  And  when  in  later  years 
he  had  become  great  among  the  scholars  of  his 
country  and  was  the  adored  Professor  of  the  Col- 
lege of  France,  he  always  turned  lovingly  to  these 
childish  days,  to  the  Cathedral  and  to  Brittany. 

We  seek  the  house  where  he  was  born.  The 
room  opening  on  the  street  is  now  used  as  a  bread 
shop.  But  the  small  back  room  contains  some  of 
the  original  furniture — the  Breton  bedstead  and 
the  great  armoire  on  the  top  of  which  Ernest's 


ERNEST    REN  AX 
After  the  painting  by  Henri  Scheffer,  1860 


TREGUIER,  ST.  YVES  AND  ERNEST  RENAN  85 

father  used  to  hide  his  "Don  Quixote"  and  "Gil 
Bias."  There  is  an  immense  stone  chimney  with 
open  fireplace.  -  In  this  room  Ernest  Renan  was 
born.  We  mount  a  narrow  stairway  leading  to  the 
garret  which  served  as  workroom  during  his  stu- 
dent years  at  Treguier.  From  the  two  small  win- 
dows we  look  out  upon  a  pleasing  landscape.  Be- 
low is  the  tiny  garden  and  the  same  rose  bushes 
that  his  mother  cherished.  The  woman  in  charge 
shows  us  photographs  of  Renan  taken  at  various 
periods  of  his  life,  tells  us  how  he  visited  the  little 
house  every  year,  how  gracious  and  gentle  he  was, 
and,  first  glancing  prudently  about,  she  whispers: 
"tout  le  monde  est  si  drole,  Treguier  ne  comprend 
pas  ce  grand  homme."  Later  on  the  old  Sacristan 
shook  his  head  portentously  at  our  mention  of  the 
name  of  Renan,  declaring  firmly  that  he  would 
never  be  allowed  burial  at  Treguier.  Two  years 
later,  standing  in  the  crowd  that  lined  the  streets 
of  Paris  watching  the  procession  bearing  the  body 
of  Ernest  Renan  to  its  burial,  I  recalled  the  words 
of  the  Sacristan.  But  Treguier  was  not  asked  to 
honour  her  son.  The  French  Government  be- 
stowed upon  his  burial  the  highest  public  honours 
in  its  power,  and  the  niche  at  the  Pantheon  will 
furnish  the  tomb  which  his  own  parish  would  have 
refused  him.  Scholars  know  him  best  through  his 
works  on  "The  Semitic  Languages,"  "The  Future 
of  Science,"  "The  Origin  of  Language,"  "Essays 
on    Morals    and   Criticisms,"    and    many   others. 


86  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

More  know  him  through  his  "Life  of  Jesus"  and 
the  group  of  philosophic  dramas — "Caliban," 
"L'Eau  de  Jouvence,"  "Le  Pretre  de  Nemi,"  and 
others.  But  as  for  the  man  he  reveals  himself 
chiefly  through  his  "Souvenirs  d'Enfance  et  de 
Jeunesse,"  "Feuilles  Detachees,"  "Correspondence 
Intime,"  and  other  books  written  shortly  before 
his  death. 

Some  of  us  doubtless  recall  the  shabby  little 
room,  Number  Four,  at  the  College  of  France, 
where  we  listened  to  the  lectures  of  the  author  of 
the  "Life  of  Jesus."  A  certain  playful  touch  pe- 
culiar to  Renan  when  dealing  with  serious  sub- 
jects was  due  to  his  everyday  familiarity  with  the 
Oriental  peoples  and  customs.  When  he  men- 
tioned the  old  prophets  one  felt  that  they  might 
have  lived  just  around  the  corner — that  one  might 
at  any  moment  encounter  Jeremiah,  Ezekiel  and 
the  rest  at  almost  any  turn  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 
This  intimate  manner  with  these  ancient  worthies 
who  have  inspired  such  awe  in  the  usual  mind  was 
not  due  to  irreverence  but  to  the  peculiar  tempera- 
ment of  the  man.  This  peculiarity  caused  M. 
Challamel-Lacour  to  say  of  Renan:  "He  thinks 
like  a  man,  he  feels  like  a  woman,  he  behaves  like 
a  child." 

In  a  prominent  chapel  in  the  Cathedral  of  Tre- 
guier  we  note  the  tomb  of  St.  Ives,  brilliant  with 
fresh  flowers  and  blazing  with  candles.  No  saint 
in  the  Breton  calendar  receives  to-day  the  devotion 


TREGUIER,  ST.  YVES  AND  ERNEST  RENAN  87 

accorded  to  this  Breton  Saint  of  Lawyers.  It  re- 
quired the  imagination — or  should  I  say? — the  dis- 
crimination of  the  Breton  to  make  a  saint  of  a  law- 
yer— the  only  instance  in  Christendom.  The  old 
Latin  student  song  is  still  sung  in  Treguier. 

"Sanctus  Yvo  eratBrito, 
Advocatus  et  non  latro, 
Res  miranda  populo." 

The  ungracious  suggestion  in  the  third  line  indi- 
cates a  lingering  popular  sentiment. 

Yves  Helori  was  born  in  the  parish  of  Treguier 
in  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century.  He  was 
of  a  noble  family  living  at  the  Manor  of  Ker- 
martin,  two  miles  from  Treguier,  was  educated  at 
Rennes,  at  Orleans  and  at  Paris  in  scholastic  theol- 
ogy and  civil  law.  He  became  a  judge  at  Rennes, 
then  at  Treguier,  afterward  cure  of  the  parish  of 
Lohannec.  The  widow  and  orphan  had  never  a 
more  eloquent  pastor  nor  the  poor  so  generous  a 
benefactor.  He  fed  the  orphans  of  his  parish, 
lodging  many  of  them  in  his  own  house;  others  he 
apprenticed  to  master  workmen  whom  he  salaried 
from  his  own  purse.  He  served  the  most  miser- 
able beggars  at  his  table,  gave  most  of  his  clothing 
to  the  poor,  visited  the  sick,  consoling  and  assist- 
ing them.  He  administered  the  sacrament  and 
prepared  for  burial  the  bodies  of  the  poor  who 
died  in  his  house.    After  a  life  thus  spent  he  died 


88  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

on  the  thirteenth  of  May,  1303,  at  the  age  of  fifty. 
Soon  miracles  came  to  be  wrought  at  his  tomb. 
These  becoming  more   and   more   frequent,    the 
Bretons  demanded  the  canonization  of  their  com- 
patriot.   The  Pope  named  a  legate  who  listened 
to*  three  hundred  witnesses  of  the  miracles  per- 
formed.   As  the  decision  of  the  Synod  was  greatly 
delayed  the  clergy  of  Treguier  boldly  anticipated 
the  decree,  celebrating  in  crowded  churches  the 
Fete  of  St.  Yves.    When  the  canonization  was  fi- 
nally pronounced  at  Rome  in  1348,  St.  Yves  had 
been  publicly  honoured  and  invoked  throughout 
Brittany.    The  pilgrimages  made  to  his  tomb  were 
so  numerous  that  those  to  Rome  and   Palestine 
dwindled  in  numbers.    This  devotion — to  a  certain 
extent — exists  to-day.    Widows  and  orphans  from 
all  over  Brittany  go  to  Treguier  to  worship  at  the 
?hrine  containing  the  skull  of  St.  Yves.     Renan 
tells  us  in  his  "Souvenirs"  that  after  the  death  of 
his  father  his  mother  took  him  to  the  tomb  of  St. 
Yves  in  the  Treguier  Cathedral  and  there  named 
this  Protector  of  the  Orphans  the  guardian  saint 
of  the  little  Ernest. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   LEGEND  AND  PARDON  OF   ST.   YVES 

PAUL  SEBILLOT,  in  his  collections  of  legends  of 
Brittany,  gives  a  popular  legend  of  St.  Yves.  Ac- 
cording to  this  St.  Yves  dies  and  appears  at  the 
gate  of  Paradise^  St.  Peter,  in  answer  to  his  knock- 
ing, calls  out:  "Who's  there?  And  what  do  you 
want?"  St.  Yves  replies  with  impressive  dignity: 
"When  one  knocks  at  a  door  it  is  naturally  to  en- 
ter." St.  Peter  grumbles:  "Everybody  can't  come 
in  here  as  if  it  were  a  wine  shop;  what  did  you 
do  down  there  during  your  life?"  "I  was  a  law- 
yer," replies  St.  Yves.  "A  lawyer!"  says  St.  Peter, 
"you  have  mistaken  the  door,  go  and  knock  at  the 
other  place."  And  he  prudently  turns  the  key 
twice  instead  of  the  usual  once.  St.  Yves,  discon- 
certed, was  standing  outside  when,*as  luck  had  it, 
there  arrived  a  sweet  little  nun  who  had  died  that 
day  at  Treguier,  to  whom  he  tells  his  unlucky  ad- 
venture. "It  can't  be  possible,"  says  the  nun.  "St. 
Peter  couldn't  shut  the  door  of  Paradise  to  such 
as  you.  Let  us  see."  And  she  knocks  softly  at  the 
door.     She  is,  of  course,  promptly  received  and 

89 


9o  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

St.  Yves  with  her.  And  the  legend  goes  on  to  re- 
late how  he  tried  to  get  a  seat  among  the  clergy 
but  the  benches  were  already  crowded,  the  more 
so  as  the  profession  was  inclined  to  stoutness.  He 
was  forced  to  go  down  to  the  seats  reserved  for 
lawyers,  which  he  finds  quite  empty.  Meanwhile 
the  little  nun  has  difficulty  in  finding  a  place  among 
her  sisterhood,  and  upon  a  nod  from  St.  Yves  she 
comes  over  and  sits  with  her  much-honoured  friend 
from  Treguier.  The  legend  shows  that  the  two 
became  so  talkative  as  to  disturb  the  quiet  of  the 
place  somewhat,  and  the  archangel  charged  with 
police  duty  in  Paradise,  comes  over  to  restore 
quiet,  even  threatening  to  turn  the  lawyer  out  of 
the  place.  But  St.  Yves  reminds  him  that  first,  he 
has  possession,  and  second,  he  has  definite  property 
rights,  and  he  quotes  from  the  Code.  The  arch- 
angel goes  off  for  a  bailiff.  Of  course  no  such 
person  is  to  be  found  in  Paradise,  and  St.  Yves  is 
permitted  to  hold  his  place.  This  legend  origi- 
nated in  Morbihan,  a  Department  of  Brittany  al- 
ways jealous  of  Treguier  and  the  glory  of  her 
saint,  and  also  possessing  intense  hatred  of  the 
bailiffs  of  the  Government  both  of  which  senti- 
ments we  note  in  the  legend. 

We  shall  find  that  our  Brittany  is  a  Province  of 
Saints  and  each  saint  has  his  miraculous  fountain. 
When  these  are  sought  for  healing  of  disease,  coins 
and  other  objects  are  thrown  into  the  fountain. 
That  these  were  long  ago  thus  frequented  is  proven 


THE  LEGEND  AND  PARDON  OF  ST.  YVES  91 

by  the  fact  that  in  digging  deep  beneath  them, 
pieces  of  coin  and  amulets  of  ancient  epochs  have 
been  found.  But  in  place  of  the  Roman  divinity 
a  Christian  saint  now  presides  over  and  gives  the 
name  to  the  fountain.  Each  saint  cures  some  spe- 
cial disease.  It  is  well  understood  that  St.  Pabu 
cures  rheumatism,  St.  Cadoc  deafness,  and  St. 
Kirion  makes  a  specialty  of  boils — "father  of 
boils,"  a  popular  litany  has  it.  For  dropsy  one 
must  seek  the  aid  of  St.  Onene,  St.  Ivy  must  be  inJ 
voked  for  colic,  St.  Urlou  for  gout  and  St.  Tre- 
meur  is  a  specific  for  neuralgia.  How  any  medical 
doctor  makes  a  living  in  Brittany  with  such  dis- 
tinguished competition  is  a  cause  for  wonder.  Nor 
are  animals  without  protecting  saints.  St.  Eloi, 
St.  Herve  and  St.  Gildas  are  committed  in  the 
Breton  liturgy  to  horses.  Cows  and  horned  cattle 
share  the  spiritual  advantages  of  various  saints, 
St.  Herbot  being  prominent  in  the  long  list.  At 
their  fetes  troops  of  these  excellent  beasts  march  in 
procession.  St.  Comely  is,  however,  most  to  be 
trusted  as  respects  horned  cattle,  and  the  great  fete 
of  this  saint  is  held  at  Carnac  on  the  fifteenth  of 
September.  At  fetes  of  horses  bunches  of  hair 
pulled  from  the  manes  and  tails  of  the  animals  are 
placed  on  the  altar  rail  as  offerings,  while  at  the 
shrines  of  St.  Herbot,  patron  saint  of  the  cow, 
pats  of  butter  are  offered.  This  is  the  saint  in- 
voked by  the  Breton  dairymaid  if  the  butter  is 
slow  in  forming  in  the  churn. 


92  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

St.  Yves  has  no  fountain  of  miraculous  water 
whereby  to  afford  assistance  in  cases  of  distress. 
He  descends  to  no  such  earthly  shrine.  The  Law- 
yer Saint  pleads  the  cause  of  the  widow  and  or- 
phan and  of  others  who  suffer  from  injustice  within, 
the  gates  of  that  Paradise  which  at  the  start  threat- 
ened to  exclude  him  from  its  courts. 

Only  in  a  single  emergency  is  St.  Yves  invoked 
through  the  medium  of  his  statue.  There  is  a 
strange  and  lugubrious  custom  with  the  Breton, 
gradually  falling  into  disuse,  called  the  "adjura- 
tion of  St.  Yves."  In  the  case  of  serious  quarrel ; 
if  a  Breton  suffers  from  dishonesty  of  another;  if  a 
boundary  line  has  been  tampered  with  and  no  proof 
was  available,  he  had  only  to  invoke  St.  Yves, 
whose  thirst  for  justice  after  the  six  hundred  years 
since  his  death,  is  in  no  wise  abated.  The  wronged 
person  made  a  pilgrimage  to  some  statue  of  the 
saint  and,  first,  placing  a  few  coins  in  the  auriole 
of  the  saint,  demanded  justice  of  him,  sometimes 
in  rather  stern  language,  sometimes  in  serious  ca- 
ress, going  to  the  length  of  shaking  the  wooden 
image  by  a  shoulder.  Many  times  these  words 
were  uttered:  "If  the  right  is  on  his  side  condemn 
us;  if  on  our  side  condemn  him;  cause  him  to  die 
within  a  year."  Then  the  circuit  of  the  chapel  is 
made  three  times  and  he  kneels  before  the  entrance 
and  makes  a  last  supplication  and  it  is  finished. 
The  guilty  person  dies  within  the  year  and  justice 
is  accomplished ! 


PHOTO  BY  FRANCES  N.  GOSTLING 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  SAIXT  GILDAS  NEAR   PORT    BLANC 

The  patron  saint  of  horses 


THE  LEGEND  AND  PARDON  OF  ST.  YVES  93 

Thus  the  Lawyer  Saint  holds  high  authority 
with  the  Breton,  with  whom  the  wall  which  sepa- 
rates the  visible  from  the  invisible  is  very  slight. 
It  has  been  said  in  fact  that  the  Breton  is  gener- 
ally in  a  state  of  mind  in  which  an  explanation  of 
natural  events  is  an  interpretation  of  the  miracu- 
lous. 

Of  course  many  legends  have  gathered  about 
the  name  of  the  Lawyer  Saint.  M.  Anatole  Le 
Braz,  in  his  book  "Au  Pays  des  Pardons,"  has 
given  the  preceeding  and  the  two  following  leg- 
ends, parts  of  which  I  give  in  his  own  words.  For 
instance:  his  boundless  hospitality  at  the  manor 
house,  Kermartin,  is  illustrated  in  the  following: 
"A  troup  of  jugglers  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  St.  Yves,  after  a  busy  day  devoted  to  pro- 
fessional duties,  was  in  the  midst  of  his  best  sleep. 
But,  awakened  by  the  knocking,  he  rose,  welcomed 
and  fed  the  guests,  serving  them  with  his  own 
hands.  After  a  generous  feast  of  pork,  beef  and 
bread  had  been  enjoyed  the  chief  of  the  Nomad 
tribe  felt  called  upon  to  express  his  gratitude  and 
to  explain  the  several  callings  of  the  members  of 
his  family;  speaking  of  himself  as  not  only  a  jug- 
gler but  a  rhymer  of  war  songs  and  the  Lives  of 
the  Saints;  then  introducing  his  wife,  player  on 
the  viol  and  fortune-teller,  and  with  a  knowledge 
of  herbs  and  a  talent  for  curing  diseases  by  prayer; 
followed  by  mention  of  his  two  sons,  one  gifted  in 
playing  the  bagpipes,  the  other  the  flute.    The  jug- 


94  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

gler  was  proceeding  to  describe  the  accomplish- 
ments of  a  group  of  young  daughters  when  St. 
Yves  begged  him  to  spare  himself  the  pains  of 
making  further  introductions,  assuring  them  that 
his  house  was  theirs  for  so  long  a  time  as  it  should 
please  them  to  remain.  Eleven  years  after,  at  the 
time  of  the  death  of  St.  Yves,  they  were  still  his 
guests." 

This  legend  is  sculptured  on  the  pulpit  of  the 
Cathedral  of  Treguier. 

The  third  legend  illustrates  the  hospitality  of 
the  Lawyer  Saint  who  never  sent  a  beggar  from 
his  door  unsatisfied.  The  legend  has  it  that  on  one 
especially  stormy  night,  the  cook  of  the  manor 
house,  believing  that  no  one  could  possibly  turn  up 
to  ask  for  food,  prepared  a  limited  supply  of  soup. 
Contrary  to  her  expectations,  crowds  of  hungry 
people  poured  into  the  old  kitchen.  The  cook 
was  frightened.  But  St.  Yves  calmed  her  fears, 
and  then  occurred  what  in  the  records  of  the  Life 
of  St.  Yves  is  named:  "The  Miracle  of  the  Soup," 
for  as  fast  as  the  cook  ladled  out  the  contents  of 
the  kettle,  the  quantity  was  made  good  by  miracu- 
lous means.  Also  the  loaves  of  bread  were  re- 
plenished in  the  same  mysterious  manner.  The 
ceremony  of  the  "Giving  of  the  Soup,"  which 
forms  a  part  of  the  fete  of  St.  Yves,  celebrates  this 
legend. 

We  must  not  leave  Treguier  without  mention  of 
the  great  fete  devoted  to  St.  Yves.    Not  only  is  he 


THE  LEGEND  AND  PARDON  OF  ST.  YVES  95 

the  greatest  saint  in  the  Breton  calendar,  but  his 
fame  extended  to  Rome,  where  in  the  fourteenth 
century  a  church  was  built,  dedicated  to  him,  and 
altars  in  his  honour  were  consecrated  in  various 
cathedrals  in  France.  Rubens  painted  a  picture 
of  the  illustrious  Breton  and  a  fresco  in  Italy  shows 
our  Lawyer  Saint  in  the  act  of  giving  gratuitous 
advice  to  a  clientele  in  rags.  His  fete  occurs  on 
the  nineteenth  day  of  May,  but  one  should  make 
a  point  of  arriving  at  Treguier  on  the  eighteenth 
in  order  to  make  the  pilgrimage  to  Kermartin  to 
witness  the  ceremony  of  the  "Giving  of  the  Soup." 

We  arrive  at  the  manor  house,  having  become 
attached  to  a  procession  of  halt,  blind  and  crippled 
beggars,  all  making  their  way  to  the  famous 
kitchen  of  the  hospitable  advocate  who  was  once 
master  there. 

The  scene  is  curious  and  impressive.  In  the 
large  fireplace,  over  blazing  fagots,  several  im- 
mense kettles  are  suspended.  All  about  the  large 
kitchen  the  mendicants  are  sitting,  some  on  the 
long  benches  which  line  the  walls,  some  on  low 
seats,  placed  here  and  there.  At  a  large  table  a 
woman  gives  to  each  newly-arrived  a  porringer 
and  spoon.  Into  this  each  breaks  bread,  of  which 
we  note  great  piles  at  one  end  of  the  table,  then 
bringing  the  porringer  to  the  fireplace,  the  woman 
in  charge  of  the  kettles  ladles  the  soup  into  the 
porringer  of  each  applicant,  who  returns  to  his  seat. 
Each  one  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  before  com- 


96  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

mencing  his  repast,  and  only  the  soft  clicking  of 
the  wooden  spoons  against  the  faience  porringers 
is  audible.  This  coming  in  of  the  hungry  and  the 
departure  of  the  satisfied  are  accomplished  silently 
and  the  soup-giving  continues  until  midnight,  when 
the  little  church  close  by  fills  with  the  motley 
crowd,  who  watch  and  pray  until  daybreak,  when 
the  mass  is  said,  and  for  them  the  "Pardon  of  St. 
Yves"  is  ended,  save  that  during  the  great  proces- 
sion of  the  following  day — the  real  fete  day — these 
beggars  lined  the  route  by  which  the  procession 
passed,  their  plaintive  songs  filling  the  air  and  re- 
sembling in  the  distance  the  droning  of  bees.  Dur- 
ing the  procession  they  receive  alms  from  the 
moving  mass.  Nowhere  as  at  the  fete  of  St.  Yves 
are  the  beggars  so  numerous.  For  was  not  St. 
Yves  the  protector  of  the  poor?  M.  Anatole  Le 
Braz  has  properly  named  the  fete  of  St.  Yves: 
"The  Pardon  of  the  Poor." 

I  recall  a  perfect  nineteenth  of  May  when  we 
made  an  important  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  St. 
Yves.  It  was  the  six  hundredth  anniversary  of  the 
death  of  the  Lawyer  Saint.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning  all  the  bells  of  Treguier  were  pealing, 
every  house  was  decorated,  as  were  the  streets, 
with  banners,  flowers  and  streamers — the  colour  of 
St.  Yves  (yellow)  prevailing.  From  every  direc- 
tion neighbouring  parishioners  arriving.  Each 
procession  advanced,  singing  the  canticle  of  St. 
Yves  set  to  the  music  of  an  ancient  Breton  Battle 


THE  LEGEND  AND  PARDON  OF  ST.  YVES  97 

Hymn.  The  clergy  of  Treguier  went  to  meet  each 
procession  and  the  curious  salutation  of  the  ban- 
ners took  place,  after  which  all  passed  to  the  Ca- 
thedral, where,  after  short  devotions  at  the  tomb 
of  the  saint,  brilliant  with  lighted  candles  and 
gorgeous  with  flowers,  each  parish  was  in  turn  as- 
signed its  place  in  the  great  procession  being 
massed  on  the  public  square.  Over  twenty  parishes 
poured  into  Treguier  that  day  and  many  thou- 
sands of  pilgrims  besides  from  all  over  Brittany. 

The  great  procession  always  makes  the  pilgrim- 
age to  Kermartin,  two  miles  from  Treguier,  where 
are  the  tomb  and  the  manor  house  of  the  Saint. 
The  latter  is  still  standing  and  some  of  the  furni- 
ture remains.  The  tomb  is  in  the  little  church- 
yard of  Minihy  close  by.  In  the  church  one  sees 
inscribed  on  the  walls  the  last  will  and  testament 
of  Yves  Helotry;  in  the  sacristry  are  treasured  the 
remains  of  his  breviary.  Although  the  body  of 
St.  Yves  reposes  at  Minihy,  his  skull  is  enshrined 
in  a  gold  casket  in  the  tomb  in  the  Cathedral  at 
Treguier.  This  is  always  borne  with  great  pomp 
in  the  procession  on  the  day  of  the  fete.  But  the 
actual  tomb  at  Minihy  is  a  small  arcade  under 
which  the  faithful  pass,  kneeling,  in  fact  creep- 
ing, so  low  is  the  stone  placed.  Unless  one  per- 
forms this  little  ceremony  one  may  not  lay  claim 
to  being  truly  "bretonnate." 

By  nine  o'clock  the  great  procession  begins  to 
move  from  Treguier,  the  bells  incessantly  ringing. 


98  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

military  bands  playing,  choristers  and  people  sing- 
ing, and  always  and  only  the  one  Canticle — the 
Canticle  of  St.  Yves — of  which  the  refrain  is,  in 
the  Breton  language: 

N'hen  es  ket  en  Breiz,  n'hen  es  ket  unan, 
N'hen  es  ket  eur  Zant  evel  Sant  Erwan. 

Which  put  into  French : 

77  n'y  a  pas  en  Bretagne,  il  n'y  a  pas  un 
II  n'y  a  pas  un  Saint  comme  St.  Yves. 

The  priest  of  each  parish  in  turn  sings  a  stanza, 
then  choristers  and  choirs,  bands  and  people  take 
up  the  refrain. 

The  procession,  two  miles  long,  with  its  hun- 
dreds of  gay  banners,  the  rich  vestments  of  the 
clergy,  the  scarlet  and  white  of  the  choristers,  the 
gay  fete  costumes  of  the  peasants,  all  flashing  in 
the  sunshine  under  the  bluest  of  skies,  as  it  goes 
winding  through  the  fields,  gives,  in  its  ensemble, 
the  impression  of  a  gorgeous  silken  scarf  tossed 
across  the  green  meadows  in  endless  length  of  pris- 
matic colour.  And  always  and  always  that  re- 
frain, sung  in  march  rhythm,  each  pilgrim  keep- 
ing time  in  his  step  and  with  his  staff  repeats  the 
familiar  refrain: 

"N'hen  es  ket  en  Breiz.    N'hen  es  ket  unan" 


THE  LEGEND  AND  PARDON  OF  ST.  YVES  99 

Arrived  at  Minihy  mass  is  said  in  the  open  air 
and  the  procession  passing  under  the  arcade  of 
the  tomb  returns  to  Treguier,  disperses  for  the 
midday  repast,  and  the  afternoon  is  passed  among 
the  booths  erected  in  the  public  square  and  in 
sports  of  various  kinds. 

Such  is  the  Pardon  of  St.  Yves,  a  Saint  in  all 
ways  worthy  of  the  great  Profession  of  which  he  is 
Patron. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MORLAIX,    BARDS   AND    POETS 

Our  next  stopping-place  is  Morlaix,  where  we 
find  some  interesting  mediaeval  houses.  That  of 
Anne  of  Brittany,  rich  in  carved  staircases  and 
superbly  decorated  throughout,  is  much  visited  by 
travellers.  Albert  the  Monk  of  Morliax  here  re- 
corded the  "Lives  of  the  Saints  of  Brittany." 

The  public  square  bearing  the  name  of  fimile 
Souvestre,  attracts  one,  and  we  note  its  statue — a 
souvenir  of  one  of  the  best-known  writers  of  Breton 
birth.  Morlaix  is  to-day  proud  of  the  distinction 
of  being  the  birthplace  of  Emile  Souvestre,  al- 
though the  author  of  "Le  Philosophe  Sous  Les 
Toits"  was  not  appreciated  by  its  citizens  in  his 
day.  But  the  book  is  Parisian,  and  to  a  lover  of 
Brittany  his  half  dozen  books :  "Les  Derniers  Bret- 
ons," "Le  Foyer  Breton,"  "Souvenirs  d'un  Bas- 
Breton,"  etc.,  are  more  important. 

From  Morlaix  we  take  train  for  St.  Pol-de-Leon 
in  Finistere.  We  are  nearing  the  land  of  the  Par- 
don, of  the  pilgrimage,  nursery  of  folk  songs,  do- 

ioo 


MORLAIX,  BARDS  AND  POETS  101 

main  of  the  Legend.  We  hail  the  constant  click  of 
the  sabot,  the  droning  song  of  the  beggar  and  the 
sound  of  the  Keltic  language,  for  we  must  bear  in 
mind  that  the  Breton  is  not  French,  he  is  pure  Kelt 
and  speaks  a  Keltic  language.  Hence  the  ancient 
bards  long  held  a  kind  of  authority  over  the  peo- 
ple, and  the  superstitions  and  legends  of  Lower 
Brittany  to-day  are  due  to  the  survival  of  this 
racial  talent  for  the  mysterious  and  supernatural. 
Several  Breton  men  of  letters  have  searched  out 
these  old  songs,  some  of  them  only  fragments,  and 
have  translated  them  from  the  Keltic  tongue  into 
French. 

Our  introduction  to  Finistere  through  the  town 
of  St.  Pol-de-Leon  gives  us  a  good  impression  of 
Lower  Brittany.  The  inhabitants  of  this  town 
have  been  from  the  earliest  time  less  barbaric  than 
in  other  parts  of  Finistere.  They  are  also  the 
most  religious  of  the  Province.  Nothing  equals 
the  respect  of  the  Leonaise  for  the  dead.  He 
kneels  at  the  wooden  cross  that  designates  a  tomb 
without  even  reading  the  name  of  the  person  buried 
there.  When  there  is  no  more  room  in  the  ceme- 
tery the  Leonaise,  faithful  to  the  training  of  his 
ancestors,  collects  the  sacred  bones  and  places 
them  in  beautiful  ossuaries,  some  of  them  master- 
pieces of  naive  and  patient  art.  In  the  country  of 
Leon  we  find  the  richest  Calvaries  in  Brittany,  and 
many  sculptured  pulpits,  altars,  baptismal  fonts 
and  ornaments. 


102  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

The  Leonais  is  brave,  collected,  imposing.  His 
garments  are  as  severe  as  his  face.  He  holds  to  the 
ample  black  vestment,  something  like  the  clerical 
mantle,  and  the  low,  wide-brimmed  hat.  The 
Leonais  may  be  named  the  Quaker  of  Brittany. 
It  is  a  splendid  race  of  men  with  regular  features 
and  fine  eyes  full  of  expression.  It  is  not  strange 
that  there  should  be  much  in  the  temperament  of 
the  Leonais  which  is  sombre.  Even  in  the  woo- 
ing of  lovers  there  is  generally  great  seriousness. 
The  lugubrious  insensibilities  of  a  maid  of  St. 
Pol-de-Leon  is  set  forth  in  a  very  queer  and  ancient 
song  of  the  tenth  century,  preserved  by  £mile 
Souvestre,  in  which,  to  each  entreaty  of  the  youth 
for  a  return  of  affection,  she  bids  him  instead  of 
seeking  happiness,  to  repair  to  the  ossuary  and 
view  the  skeletons  which  she  describes  in  a  realistic 
manner,  worthy  of  Zola  or  Huysmans.  The 
youth's  further  entreaties  inspire  the  maid  to  pre- 
dict a  most  unpleasant  dance  which  her  lover  will 
be  likely  to  perform  in  the  next  life — the  demon, 
with  red-hot  forks  playing  maliciously  with  his 
bare  feet.  But  the  lover  persists  (one  wonders 
why),  whereupon  the  dispiriting  maiden  begins 
to  describe  a  life  in  a  convent  to  which  she  intends 
to  retire,  and  the  poem  ends  thus:  "Oh,  my  mis- 
tress, how  much  time  I  have  passed  with  you  and 
to  no  profit  if  what  you  say  be  true."  To  which 
she  replies:  "Young  man,  you  are  beautiful  and 
fat"  (in  the  eyes  of  the  Breton  peasants  corpulency 


A    STREET    IN    MORLAIX 

The  home  of  the  Franciscan    Monk,  Albert   of    Morlaix 

who  first  collected  the  Legends  of  Brittany 


MORLAIX,  BARDS  AND  POETS  103 

is  a  point  of  beauty,  as  indicating  leisure  and 
wealth).  "You  are  beautiful  and  fat,  and  I  will 
reward  you  for  the  time  you  have  lost  by  praying 
for  you  morning  and  evening  that  you  may  enter 

Paradise "    "Adieu,  then,  O  Maiden,  alas!    I 

now  know  it  is  wrong  to  laugh  when  one  is  young, 
for  life  is  sad.  It  is  wrong  to  find  the  milk  of  the 
nurse  sweet,  for  life  is  bitter." 

M.  Anatole  Le  Braz  has  written  a  thrilling 
novel:  "Le  Gardien  du  Feu,"  in  which  a  Leon- 
ais  marries  a  girl  from  Treguier.  This  novel 
portrays  a  tragic  problem. 

M.  Anatole  Le  Braz  portrays  this  part  of  Brit- 
tany admirably  in  his  book  "La  Terre  du  Passe" 
and  in  "The  Land  of  Pardons"  and  several  ro- 
mances translated  by  Frances  Gostling. 

Many  famous  sons  of  France  have  belonged  to 
Brittany,  and  have  written  of  that  fascinating 
country.  Among  them  Brizeux,  Charles  Le  Gof- 
fic,  Villemarque,  Emile  Souvestre,  Luzel,  Tiezce- 
lin  (endless  volumes  of  poetry — for  the  Bretons 
are  all  poets) .  There  is  a  splendid  history  of  Brit- 
tany by  de  la  Borderie,  countless  books  and  bro- 
chures on  matters  archaeological.  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  reading  several  hundred  books  that 
have  to  do  with  my  subject  in  French  alone,  but  I 
mention  here  only  such  as  are  most  useful  to  the 
general  traveller  in  Brittany.  If  but  four  books 
could  be  chosen  from  the  many,  let  them  be :  A.  Le 
Braz's  "Land  of  Pardons,"  Pierre  Loti's  "Pecheur 


104  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

d'Islande,"  Brizeux's  poem  "Marie,"  Ernest  Ren- 
art's  "Souvenirs  d'Enfance  et  de  Jeunesse." 

To-day  yet  another  school  of  singers  has  come  to 
take  possession,  quite  modern.  Chief  of  the  pres- 
ent bards  (for  poets  are  still  called  bards  in  Lower 
Brittany)  are  Theodore  Botrel  and  Francois  Jaf- 
frenou.  The  former,  born  in  Upper  Brittany, 
composes  his  songs  and  sings  them  in  French. 
Jaffrenou — a  native  of  the  Mountains  of  Arez  in 
Lower  Brittany — writes  only  in  the  Breton  and 
sings  his  songs  in  the  same  language,  and  with  the 
vigor  which  suggests  the  oaks  and  granite  of  his 
country,  while  Botrel  *  captivates  his  audiences 
by  a  contrasting,  graceful  touch  that  is  truly 
French.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  of 
these  two  Breton  bards  is  more  enjoyable.  Both 
please  their  public. 

But  there  remained  until  a  few  years  ago  in 
Brittany  one  of  the  old  popular  singers — a  link 
between  past  and  present  bardism,  and  it  is  a  pleas- 
ure to  note  that  the  joyous  young  bards  did  not 
scorn  this  relic  of  the  past,  on  the  contrary — old 
Marc'harit  Phulup  was  held  in  profound  respect 
by  them  and  indeed  by  all  Brittany. 

Of  her  I  shall  have  more  to  say  later  on. 


*  During  the  war  Botrel  went  from  hospital  to  hospital  singing 
to  the  wounded  French  soldiers. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

marc'harit  phulup  and  job  la  poulaine 

In  THE  September  of  1900,  in  the  old  town  of 
Guingamp  during  the  sessions  of  the  Congress  of 
the  Union  Regionaliste  Breton,  composed  of 
Breton  men  of  letters,  every  evening  was  devoted 
to  the  "cabaret  breton,"  cider  flowed  freely;  the 
poets  recited  their  verses;  the  bards  sang  their 
songs;  the  audience  joined  in  the  refrains.  The 
old  and  popular  rondo,  "Anne  of  Brittany  and  Her 
Wooden  Shoes,"  once  set  going,  was  sure  to  bring 
the  audience  to  a  high  pitch  of  enthusiasm.  But 
not  to  the  highest.  For  one  evening,  in  the  midst 
of  the  programme,  a  woman  about  sixty  years  of 
age,  in  sabots  well  lined  with  straw,  no  stockings, 
a  dark  blue  cotton  gown  and  apron  of  the  same  ma- 
terial, a  small  shoulder  shawl  and  the  white  coif 
of  the  peasant  of  Pluzunet,  came  upon  the  plat- 
form. The  entire  audience  rose  and  greeted  her 
— two,  three — round  after  round  of  cheering.  The 
woman  stood  smiling  at  her  audience.  Then  she 
sang.    It  was  Marc'harit  Phulup,  known  through- 

105 


106  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

out  Brittany  as  "old  Marc'harit."  I  had  met  her 
name  in  the  preface  of  Luzel's  volumes  of  "Popu- 
lar Tales"  where  this  greatest  of  the  Breton  folk- 
lorists  writes:  "Marc'harit  Phulup  has  given  me 
the  whole  treasure  of  popular  literature  known  be- 
tween the  bourg  of  Pluzunet,  the  Menezbre,  Guin- 
gamp,  Pourtrieux,  Treguier  and  Lannion.  En- 
dowed with  a  mediocre  intelligence,  she  possesses 
an  excellent  memory,  loves  passionately  the  old 
songs  and  the  fairy  tales  which  she  is  not  far  from 
believing  to  be  true,  and  she  recites  these  simply 
and  with  great  respect  for  the  traditions.  Spinner 
by  profession,  pilgrim  by  procuration,  she  is  al- 
most constantly  on  the  routes  leading  to  some  sa- 
cred fountain  or  chapel  of  the  C6tes-du-Nord, 
Finistere  or  Morbihan  to  implore  the  Saint  whose 
specialty  it  is  to  cure  the  malady  of  the  person 
sending  her,  or  of  his  horse,  or  cow,  or  pig,  and 
she  brings  back  a  bottle  filled  with  water  from  the 
miraculous  fountain  bearing  the  name  of  the  saint 
invoked.  Wherever  she  passes  she  inquires  about 
the  existing  traditions  of  the  locality,  listens,  com- 
mits to  memory  and  two  or  three  times  a  year  I 
give  her  a  rendezvous  at  Plouaret  and  share  the 
additions  with  which  she  has  enriched  her  treas- 
ury. It  is  truly  astonishing,  all  that  she  has  recited 
to  me,  and  I  owe  her  great  obligations." 

I  said:  "She  stood  smiling  down  at  her  audi- 
ence." Then  she  sang — not  the  songs  of  to-day,  but 
those  taught  her  by  her  mother,  who  in  turn  had 


MARC'HARIT  PHl'l.lT 
1835-1909 


MARC'HARIT  PHULUP  AND  LA  POULAINE     107 

learned  them  from  her  mother — a  family  of  spin- 
ners. In  Brittany  it  has  often  been  to  the  rhythm 
of  the  wheel  that  the  popular  songs  have  been 
sung. 

Marc'harit  Phulup  was  a  beggar — but  not  from 
choice,  for  the  paralysis  of  an  arm  made  her  pro- 
fession of  spinner  impossible.  However,  in  Brit- 
tany, to  be  a  beggar  is  considered  no  disgrace,  and 
Marc'harit's  faith  in  the  Saints  being  boundless, 
her  intercession  at  their  shrines  was  held  to  be  very 
efficacious,  and  she  was  in  great  demand  as  a  pil- 
grim. For  making  a  pilgrimage  at  a  distance  of 
thirty  miles  she  was  paid  eight  sous! 

I  am  proud  to  have  possessed  the  affectionate 
friendship  of  this  last  of  the  old  popular  singers. 
We  made  many  journeys  together,  she  being  my 
guest.  Her  sole  impedimenta  in  travelling  con- 
sisted of  a  list  of  her  songs,  168  altogether, — of 
which  she  was  justly  proud,  a  list  made  for  her  by 
the  great  Luzel.  Just  how  she  managed  her  daily 
toilette  was  always  a  mystery  to  me.  At  one  mo- 
ment, impelled  by  the  apparent  necessities  of  the 
case,  I  ventured  to  present  my  fellow  traveller  with 
a  cake  of  soap,  rose-tinted  and  highly  perfumed. 
I  found  a  week  later  that  shetreasured  the  gift  as 
a  precious  souvenir  of  "Bretonez-Tramor"  (the 
name  I  bear  among  my  Bretons,  meaning:  "a 
Breton  lady  from  over  the  sea").  Some  of  the 
Breton  men  of  letters,  realizing  the  value  of 
Marc'harit's  songs,  have  had  the  most  important 


108  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

phonographed,  and  placed  among  the  archives  of 
the  University  of  Rennes. 

How  vividly  I  recall  the  many  hours  which 
Marc'harit  and  I  passed  together,  as  we  sat  by  the 
roadside,  watching  processions  given  for  St.  Yves 
and  other  saints.  It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions 
that  she  taught  me  that  little  song,  "Ann  hini  goz," 
the  most  ancient  of  the  Breton  folk  songs.  It  has 
been  named  the  "ranz  des  vaches"  of  the  Breton, 
for  he  weeps  when  absent  from  his  country  if  he 
hears  it  sung.  Every  Breton  has  been  rocked  to 
sleep  to  its  rhythm.  The  five  little  notes  which 
compose  the  melody  of  "Ann  hini  goz"  stand  for 
mother — home — Brittany. 

Great  singers  may  be  younger,  fairer,  richer, 
but  give  me  my  poor,  dear  old  Marc'harit,  and  as 
I  hum  this  little  tune  there  comes  to  me  the  souve- 
nir of  an  old  face,  under  a  peasant's  coif — of  a 
form  worn  by  age  and  poverty,  in  the  humble  garb 
of  a  beggar.  Not  the  glint  of  a  white  satin  slipper 
and  silken  hose  in  the  midst  of  dainty  frou-frou, 
but  a  pair  of  wooden  shoes  thrust  boldly  out  on  the 
green  grass,  and  no  stockings.  Not  a  pair  of  white 
gloves,  but  two  poor  old  hands  knotted  by  rheuma- 
tism, and  rough  from  working  in  the  fields,  and  I 
recall  her  constrained,  resonant  voice,  and  the  "Ann 
hini  goz." 

Several  years  ago  she  passed  on  at  the  age  of 
seventy- three.  Doubtless  she  promptly  sought  and 
found  her  favorite  Saint  in  some  Amen  corner  of 


MARCHARIT  PHULUP  AND  LA  POULAINE     109 

that  Paradise  which  was  at  first  so  inhospitable  to 
St.  Yves. 

In  the  month  of  September,  191 1,  nearly  three 
years  after  the  death  of  my  friend,  which  occurred 
in  1909,  there  gathered  in  the  little  hamlet  of 
Pluzunet  a  distinguished  company  of  Bretons — 
poets — singers, — professors— folk-lorists — romanc- 
ers— philologists — archaeologists.  Also  a  crowd  of 
peasants  from  the  country  about  Pluzunet,  come  to 
witness  the  inauguration  of  a  tomb  in  the  little 
cemetery  of  the  village.  Marc'harit  had  been 
buried  in  the  pauper's  corner.  But  certain  friends 
had  felt  that  this  last  of  the  singers  of  folk-songs — 
the  link  between  the  ancient  Brittany  and  that  of 
to-day — deserved  a  more  honourable  burial.  A 
lot  was  bought  in  perpetuity,  and  on  this  a  beauti- 
ful tomb  of  the  granite  of  Kersanton  had  been 
placed.  On  the  tomb  were  engraven — Marc'harit 
Phulup,  with  date  of  birth  and  death.  And  for  an 
epitaph  these  words  from  an  almost  forgotten 
Breton  poet:  "Lud-Jan":  "J e  n'ai  fait  qu'une  chose 
ici-bas — J'ai  chante."  Only,  as  Marc'harit  did  not 
know  French,  nor  did  her  fellow  townsfolk,  these 
words  were  put  into  Breton,  and  so  engraven  on 
the  stone.  Garlands  of  heather — the  pan-Keltic 
flower — encircled  the  base  of  the  tomb.  High 
mass  was  said  in  the  parish  church  at  nine  o'clock 
— then  the  company  of  Breton  men  of  letters  gath- 
ered at  one  side  of  the  tomb — Le  Goflic,  Le  Braz, 
Jaffrenou,   Botrel,   Durocher,  Ernault  and  many 


no  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

others — each  gifted  in  his  especial  way.  Throngs 
of  peasants  filled  the  cemetery  on  the  opposite  side. 
Each  of  the  men  of  letters,  in  turn,  stepped  forward 
with  his  offering — in  verse  or  prose — no  such  gath- 
ering of  the  scholars  of  Brittany  had  ever  occurred 
as  that  which  had  assembled  to  do  honor  to  a 
beggar — a  mere  singer  of  songs.  For  an  hour  the 
literary  programme  went  on,  and  then  all  sat  down 
at  table  in  the  modest  inn  of  Pluzunet — twenty- 
two  altogether,  and  there  for  four  hours  the  sym- 
posium continued — songs — remembrances  of  old 
Marc'harit — speeches — recitations.  That  was  a 
day  for  Pluzunet — the  parish  folk  who  had  seen 
old  Marc'harit  going  and  coming,  in  their  midst 
all  these  years,  were  amazed  at  all  these  festivities. 
For  the  rest  of  us — it  was  a  recognition  of  the  value 
of  a  unique  personage. 

There  are  many  ambulant  singers  of  less  im- 
portance in  Brittany — of  more  modern  traditions. 
These  are  sure  to  be  present  at  fetes,  weddings  and 
pilgrimages.  They  are  welcome  guests  at  every 
fireside. 

Another  precious  experience  among  many  inti- 
mate happenings — has  been  my  friendship  for  an- 
other popular  old  singer  in  Brittany,  less  important 
than  Marc'harit.  This  is  Job  la  Poulaine,  of  Plou- 
manack  (Cotes  du  Nord).  We  are  fast  friends. 
She  lives  in  a  sort  of  grotto,  twelve  feet  square, 
formed  by  the  relative  position  of  several  immense 
boulders — tossed  one  upon  another.    The  people 


MARC'HARIT  PHULUP  AND  LA  POULAINE     in 

tell  you  that  Job's  ancestors  were  fairies  (I  like  to 
believe  what  the  Breton  peasants  tell  me — their 
facts  are  sure  to  be  picturesque  and  unique). 
They  hold  her  in  great  respect.  She  is  the  only 
person  I  have  met  during  my  long  life  who  owns 
to  being  absolutely  happy — whose  every  wish  is 
gratified.  The  drunkard-husband  whom  she  sup- 
ports by  working  in  the  fields  might  present  to 
some  minds  an  obstacle  to  perfect  bliss.  That 
such  is  not  the  case  suggests  some  potent  charm  at 
Job's  command,  that  doubtless  only  fairy  folk  un- 
derstand. She  is  sixty  years  old.  Her  clear  pink 
and  white  complexion,  and  large,  blue,  happy  eyes 
are  beautiful  to  see.  Job  la  Poulaine  finds  her 
recreation  in  song.  During  my  visits  at  her  grotto, 
I  have  listened  to  her  entire  repertory,  which  in- 
cludes both  sacred  and  secular  music — the  former 
being  her  preference.  I  have  been  treated — espe- 
cially if  the  day  be  a  Sunday — to  an  entire  mass — 
she  taking  the  role  of  priest,  choir  and  people  in 
turn — in  Gregorian  plain-chant  and  in  resonant 
Latin.  Her  Latin  flows  unctuously,  although  she 
does  not  know  the  language.  Many  a  delightful 
hour  have  I  passed  in  Job's  grotto — the  head  of  the 
family  being  invariably  at  the  wine  shop  a  mile 
away.  Job's  goat  and  pair  of  hens — together  with 
myself,  forming  the  audience  at  these  musical 
seances. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  BRETON  WEDDING 

In  BRITTANY  when  we  meet  a  young  man  and 
maid  walking  along  the  country  road  with  their 
little  fingers  interlocked,  we  know  that  a  wedding 
will  soon  follow.  The  locked  fingers  furnish  the 
announcement  of  the  betrothal  of  the  pair.  How 
many  such  couples  have  I  encountered — all  smiles 
and  blushes — proclaiming  the  announcement  "au 
petit  doight"  as  it  is  called. 

In  Lower  Brittany  the  wedding  involves  much 
of  curious  custom  and  naive  sentiment.  The  wed- 
ding occurs  soon  after  the  betrothal.  But  for  many 
years  the  wedding  chest  has,  by  slow  instalments, 
been  made  ready  by  the  mother  of  the  bride. 
Often  the  coffer  has  been  carved,  on  winter  even- 
ings, through  many  years  by  some  relative  of  the 
family.  These  coffers  and  the  lit  clos  (the  armoire 
bedstead)  and  sometimes  a  massive  armoire  con- 
stitute the  lares  et  penates  of  thrifty  Breton  fami- 
lies. As  the  time  fixed  for  the  wedding  ap- 
proaches, there  is  a  commotion  in  the  family,  the 

TI2 


A  BRETON  WEDDING  113 

excitement  of  which  spreads  through  the  parish. 
The  wedding  gown  is  made — the  linen,  stored  for 
many  years,  is  whitened  in  the  fields,  the  carved 
bedstead,  armoire  and  coffers  are  waxed  and  pol- 
ished, all  the  brass  and  copper  utensils  are  made 
to  shine  like  gold.  Then  on  a  Saturday  evening 
comes  the  betrothal  supper  to  the  intimate  friends. 
The  next  day  at  high  mass  the  bans  are  published, 
after  which  the  invitations  to  the  wedding  are 
given.  On  the  morning  of  the  wedding  crowds  of 
friends  gather  to  join  the  procession  to  the  church, 
which  the  bridegroom  leads  with  the  chosen  best 
man;  after  the  religious  ceremony  the  procession 
passes  to  the  house  of  the  bride,  the  binions  play- 
ing vociferously.  The  house  (more  often  than 
otherwise  consisting  of  one  room)  has  been  hung 
with  white  linen  sheets  with  wreaths  and  bouquets 
attached  to  their  surface.  Tables  are  spread  inside 
and  outside  the  house.  The  feast  consists  of  every- 
thing within  the  means  of  the  family  to  provide. 
Be  sure  that  cider,  the  national  beverage,  flows 
freely.  Eating,  drinking,  songs  sung  by  the  am- 
bulant singers,  and  dancing  fill  the  afternoon  and 
night  hours.  (During  the  repast  the  binious  go 
on  playing,  and  a  dance  now  and  then,  by  way  of 
entree  between  courses,  is  in  order.)  Numerous 
beggars  are  sure  to  be  present,  and  the  poorest  of 
these  dances  with  the  bride,  as  this  is  sure  to  bring 
good  luck  to  the  newly-married.  The  ceremony 
of  the  soupe-au-lah.  difficult  to  describe  here,  is 


ii4  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

still  a  custom  in  the  mountains.  In  certain  parts 
of  Finistere  the  festivities  last  three  days.  The 
final  event  is  the  ceremony  of  carrying  the  bride's 
armoire  to  the  house  of  her  new  husband.  We  may 
be  sure  this  armoire  is  shining  like  a  mirror  and 
its  brasses  like  gold,  and  bouquets  adorn  the  four 
corners.  Placed  upon  a  wagon  drawn  by  horses 
decorated  with  ribbons  and  flowers,  it  is  finally 
placed  in  the  corner  prepared,  in  the  midst  of 
bravos. 

At  Plougastel  all  the  marriages  take  place  on 
two  days  of  the  year,  one  of  these  being  the  twelfth 
day — always  at  nine  in  the  morning.  Before  day- 
break the  town  is  filled  with  carts  and  carriages 
bringing  kinsfolk  and  friends,  and  the  streets 
swarm  with  men  and  women  in  their  fete  costumes 
— and  the  costumes  of  Plougastel  are  of  more  vivid 
colors  than  elsewhere  in  Brittany.  All  the  couples 
are  ranged  at  the  altar  rail,  the  bridegroomsbeing 
led  up  by  their  best  men,  and  the  brides  by  their 
fathers.  A  tall,  lighted  candle  is  placed  before 
each  couple.  After  the  joining  of  these  many  pairs 
of  hands  and  the  benediction,  the  anthem  is  sung 
and  mass  follows.  Bride  and  groom  do  not  leave 
the  church  together,  but  are  sure  to  find  each  other 
shortly  after — at  least  I  have  never  known  any  of 
them  to  get  lost! 

I  am  going  to  speak  in  some  detail  of  the  most 
recent  and  also  the  most  important  wedding  that 
I  have  attended  in  Brittany. 


A  BRETON  WEDDING  115 

One  day  when  I  was  attending  one  of  the  Con- 
gresses of  the  Breton  bards — in  Carnac  in  Lower 
Brittany,  a  priest  of  a  little  parish  in  the  northern 
part  of  Morbihan  came  to  invite  me  to  his  sister's 
wedding.  He  also  gave  me  the  privilege  of  bring- 
ing with  me  any  friend  whom  I  would  like  to  in- 
vite, adding  naively  that  there  would  be  abundant 
entertainment,  as  there  were  to  be  slain  three 
beeves  and  seven  calves  in  provision  for  the  feast. 
Five  hundred  invitations  had  been  given,  and  it 
was  to  be  a  three-days'  affair.  Rendezvous  was 
made  at  Vannes — the  capital  of  Morbihan — 
twelve  miles  from  the  place  of  the  wedding — on 
the  afternoon  preceding  the  event. 

It  was  already  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning 
when  we  arrived  at  the  place  designated.  The 
priest  installed  us  at  a  Convent  opposite  the  house 
of  the  bride,  and  shortly  after  brought  his  sister  to 
greet  us.  She  was  already  dressed  for  the  cere- 
mony, save  for  the  orange  flowers — a  Parisian  in- 
novation seldom  seen  in  Brtitany.  She  wore  the 
usual  peasant  gown  of  black — but  heavily  banded 
in  velvet  and  embroidery — an  apron  of  gorgeous 
stuff,  crimson  satin  with  large  mantle  of  heavy  vel- 
vet thrown  over  it — and  the  usual  coif  of  her  par- 
ish. She  was  sweet  and  tranquil  and  offered  both 
cheeks  to  be  kissed  all  around — then  returned  home 
for  the  final  touch — a  small  wreath  of  orange  blos- 
soms surmounting  the  top  of  the  coif,  and  lastly 
white   gloves — another   Parisian   innovation.     At 


u6  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

ten  o'clock  the  bells  began  pealing  and  the  proces- 
sion marched  to  the  church — the  bride  and  groom 
leading.  The  wedding  ceremony  was,  as  always, 
in  Breton.  The  wedding  feast  and  dancing  were 
to  take  place  in  a  field  near  by.  Thither  the  pro- 
cession moved  from  the  church,  passing  along  a 
beautiful  shady  lane.  At  the  wide-open  gate  of 
the  field  a  halt  was  made,  and  immediately  the 
chief  cook  and  master  of  ceremonies  advanced  with 
a  dish  on  which  was  a  huge  piece  of  beef — smoking 
hot  from  the  cauldron.  This  was  offered  to  the 
bridegroom  who,  taking  from  his  pocket  his  knife 
(as  all  Breton  peasants  do),  cut  a  morsel  and  of- 
fered it  to  the  bride,  who  ate  it,  he  cutting  an- 
other for  himself.  Next  came  another  man  with 
a  large  loaf  of  bread.  The  bridegroom  cut  a  bit 
from  the  loaf  and  served  the  bride  and  himself  in 
the  same  manner.  Lastly  came  dancing  up  a  pair 
of  handsome  young  Bretons,  gaily  decorated  with 
flowers  and  ribbons,  bearing  between  them  a  large 
two-handled  vase  or  jug.  We  note  the  fine  old 
Roman  shape  of  the  jug  and  recall  that  Caesar  con- 
quered Gaul  and  made  headquarters  in  Morbihan 
where  many  of  the  Roman  forms  of  pottery  linger. 
The  two  wine-bearers — (only  the  wine  is  plain 
Breton  cider)  as  they  advance  in  dancing,  rhyth- 
mic step,  sing  an  ancient  Breton  drinking  song. 
The  especial  duty  of  the  wine-bearer  is  supposed 
to  be  to  "cheer  the  bride."  They  approach  the 
young  couple,  always  in  this  dancing  fashion,  and 


A  BRETON  WEDDING 


117 


each  offers  a  glass  of  cider  to  the  pair.  Afterward 
cider  was  offered  to  us,  as  we  were  placed  next  to 
the  bride.  Then  the  procession  moved  through  the 
gate  and  into  the  field.  Seven  cauldrons — each  in 
charge  of  a  cook — the  chef  in  charge  of  the  whole 
— were  steaming  at  one  end  of  the  field,  and  I  re- 
called the  beeves  to  be  slain  in  the  invitation.  Two 
long  tables — placed  twelve  feet  apart,  extended  to 
the  farther  end,  and  at  the  upper  end  connecting 
the  two — a  table  covered  with  damask  and  deco- 
rated with  bouquets,  was  arranged  for  the  bridal 
company.  Benches  ranged  along  both  sides  of  the 
tables  furnished  seats  for  the  company.  The  first 
course  consisted  of  the  soup  of  the  pot-au-feu,  the 
second,  beef  and  vegetables.  For  the  third  we 
were  served  personally  by  the  bride's  mother,  who 
displayed  special  pride  in  the  ragout,  which  she 
informed  us  had  been  prepared  in  her  own  kitchen 
under  her  personal  supervision.  Mountains  of 
bread  placed  at  intervals  on  the  tables  completed 
the  menu.  But  the  wine-bearers  were  ever  active, 
up  and  down — back  and  forth  in  the  space  between 
the  two  long  tables  they  danced  and  sang  and 
served — I  begged  from  one  of  them  a  translation 
of  one  of  the  drinking  songs — as  it  was  sung  in  the 
Breton  language.  It  was  Horatian  in  sentiment, 
with  a  touch  of  Breton  lugubriousness:  "Let  us 
drink  and  be  merry  to-day,  for  to-morrow  we  shall 

die  and  our  bodies  be  food  for  worms "    Just 

how  this  could  "cheer  the  bride"  he  did  not  at- 


u8  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

tempt  to  explain.  No  dessert  was  offered  at  table, 
but  women  with  baskets  of  cake  and  other  sweets, 
which  could  be  bought  if  desired,  made  their  ap- 
pearance in  the  field  after  the  repast. 

At  the  close  of  the  feast  the  bride  rose,  turned 
her  back  to  the  table,  the  others  following  her 
movements — and  then  followed  a  most  impressive 
incident — an  aged  woman,  all  her  life  a  servant 
of  the  family,  knelt  on  the  ground  at  the  feet  of 
the  bride  and  uttered  a  long  prayer.  It  was  a 
prayer  for  the  dead — those  of  the  family — whose 
presence  at  this  marriage  fete  she  invoked.  For 
the  Breton  is  never  far  removed  from  his  lost  ones, 
and  each  family  fete  and  event  is  shared  by  them. 

As  the  prayer  ended  the  sound  of  the  binions 
was  heard,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  field  two  play- 
ers of  bagpipes  were  stationed.  The  bride  and 
groom  with  bridesmaid  and  best  man  begin  the 
dance — the  gavotte  being  the  favourite  dance  at 
weddings.  Gradually  the  circle  grows  larger  and 
presently  the  entire  field  is  in  movement — mean- 
while the  wine-bearers  are  always  serving — the 
"cheering  of  the  bride"  seems  to  succeed  in  spite 
of  the  mortuary  suggestions  of  the  song.  For 
when  she  leaves  the  dancing  at  five  o'clock  to  join 
us  at  her  mother's  house  for  a  farewell  glass  of 
wine,  she  seems  radiant,  and,  although  she  has  been 
dancing  for  five  hours,  she  is  unflushed  by  the  ef- 
fort. At  the  mother's  house  we  all  drink  to  the 
health  of  the  newly  married,  and  they  to  ours — 


A  BRETON  WEDDING  119 

the  bride  disappears  for  five  minutes  and  returns 
resplendent  in  another  apron — this  time  of  pale 
blue  brocade;  after  all,  why  possess  the  trousseau 
of  two  aprons  if  the  invited  guests  be  unaware  of 
the  fact!  And  so  we  depart — another  banquet, 
precisely  like  the  first,  is  to  be  served  and  the  danc- 
ing will  go  on  until  midnight;  on  the  second  day 
the  programme  will  be  like  that  of  the  first,  and 
on  the  third  day,  given  up  to  the  poor,  the  final 
ceremony  of  carrying  the  bride's  wardrobe  to  her 
husband's  house  will  close  the  wedding  fete. 

The  invocation  of  the  dead  at  the  wedding  feast 
illustrates  one  of  the  strongest  traits  of  Breton 
character — the  cult  of  the  dead — voila  la  Bre- 
tagne! 

On  All  Souls  Eve,  in  Breton  homes,  a  bright  fire 
is  kept  blazing  on  the  hearth  when  the  family  re- 
tires for  the  night — a  table  covered  with  a  white 
cloth  ("article  de  luxe  chez  les  Bretons")  is  set 
forth  with  cider  and  crips  (a  kind  of  wheat  cake), 
all  ready  in  case  some  family  ghost  chance  to  visit 
the  familiar  place,  hungry!  For  on  that  night  it 
is  prudent  to  avoid  going  outside,  as  the  dead  are 
walking  hither  and  thither  on  the  highways,  and 
like  not  to  be  interfered  with,  so  the  Breton  pru- 
dently retires  early — taking  no  chances  of  harm 
from  any  stray  malignant  ghost — but  hospitably 
providing  for  the  entertainment  of  his  own  family 
wraiths.  If,  however,  a  Breton  is  forced  to  go 
abroad  on  that  night  any  implement  of  labor  car- 


[20  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

ried  on  his  person  serves  as  a  protection — even  a 
thimble  or  a  needle  suffices. 

The  Veillee  with  the  Bretons  is  a  becoming  and 
dignified  function — in  other  Keltic  countries, 
notably  in  Ireland,  the  best-intentioned  Wake  has 
been  known  to  come  to  an  unworthy  end.  But  with 
the  Bretons  the  Veillee  has  retained  its  discreet  and 
tender  element  I  have  shared  several  such  in 
Brittany.  Near  relatives  and  friends  gather  at 
nightfall  and  sit  through  the  night — their  dead  is 
in  their  midst — they  talk  of  the  departed — recall 
this  or  that  deed  or  quality — recite  souvenirs — now 
and  then  some  one  kneels  and  prays  in  silence. 
Sometimes  certain  songs  are  sung — all  is  tender, 
affectionate  and  sympathetic.  At  midnight  coffee 
(never  anything  stronger)  is  served  with  simple 
refreshments,  and  the  watch  continues  until  dawn 
— and  thus  on  each  night  until  the  burial  takes 
place. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

BRETON  COSTUMES,  LANDERNEU,  LA  GARDE  JOYEUSE 

In  Lower  Brittany  the  costumes  of  the  people 
are  more  interesting  and  unique.  The  coif  worn 
by  the  women  is  a  strong  feature  of  the  costume, 
each  canton  having  its  own  special  style,  and  any 
Breton  woman  knows  the  home  of  any  other  from 
the  fashion  of  her  headdress.  How  many  de- 
lightful talks  do  we  recall,  sitting  on  a  bench  in 
some  public  square  in  Paris,  with  some  Breton 
woman,  won  into  this  privilege  through  my  having 
accosted  her  and  placing  her  home-parish  by  means 
of  her  coif.  There  are  over  one  thousand  differ- 
ent coifs  in  Brittany.  I  have  seen  seven  hun- 
dred in  a  single  collection.  Each  style  seems  more 
interesting  than  another,  and  the  laundering  of 
these  airy  bits  of  finery  would  place  many  a  Pari- 
sian laundress  at  a  disadvantage.  In  some  sections 
the  peasant  woman  wears  a  black  skirt  scarcely 
reaching  the  ankle,  a  jacket  of  the  bolero  order 
and  a  chemisette  which,  like  the  coif,  gives  a 
touch  of  freshness  to  the  costume.  For  fete-days, 
the  jacket  of  the  women,  as  well  as  the  waistcoats 
(called  gilets)  of  the  men,  are  richly  embroidered. 
And  lastly,  the  apron!  the  apron  of  silk!    What 

121 


122  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

endless  economies  have  been  practised  in  order  to 
possess  this  culminating  feature  of  the  costume. 
It  is  sure  to  be  of  the  most  vivid  colors — such  un- 
relenting purples  and  crimsons  and  apple-greens 
as  even  the  rankest  impressionist  never  imagined! 
And  be  sure  the  creases  in  this  silken  bit  of  adorn- 
ment are  always  in  evidence  and  are  held  as  so 
many  lines  of  beauty.  Once  accomplished,  the 
apron  of  the  Breton  peasant  lasts  a  lifetime,  and  is 
transmitted  to  posterity.  Arriving  home  from  the 
fete,  the  entire  costume,  saving  the  coif  which  is 
always  worn,  is  carefully  packed  away  in  the 
carved  family  chest,  there  to  repose  until  the  oc- 
currence of  some  other  festivity. 

In  order  to  see  the  ancient  costumes  of  the  men 
one  should  attend  a  large  fair  or  Pardon.  At  such 
times  the  old  men  come  out  in  the  toggery  of  their 
ancestors.  Accordeon-pleated  trousers  confined  at 
the  knee  with  silver  buckles,  leggings  and  sabots, 
white  chemisette,  embroidered  gilets,  velvet  jack- 
ets ornamented  with  many  buttons,  a  broad  belt 
with  ponderous  buckle,  the  hat  broad-brimmed, 
low-crowned,  with  long,  floating  ends  of  velvet  rib- 
bon fastened  by  a  silver  buckle.  The  young  Breton 
to-day  holds  to  the  gilet,  chemisette  and  low  hat 
with  floating  ribbons.  But  in  order  to  get  a  true 
idea  of  the  costume  our  Breton  should  be  inside  it. 
It  all  goes  together.  Much  time  and  zeal  are  ex- 
pended in  the  embroideries  employed  in  the  cos- 
tumes.   Usually  this  ornamental  work  is  done  by 


BRETON  COSTUMES      .  123 

the  men,  the  women  going  into  the  field,  leaving 
her  lord  at  home  at  his  embroidering!  To-day  the 
costume  is  worn  only  by  the  peasants.  Formerly 
the  nobility  wore  the  same,  and  it  was  thus  that 
the  Breton  lords  went  to  the  Parliament  and  to  the 
Royal  Court  at  Paris. 

In  the  time  of  Louis  XII,  Anne  of  Brittany,  his 
queen,  made  many  Breton  families  popular  at 
Court.  The  large  trousers  worn  to  the  knee,  of  the 
later  period  of  Henry  II  to  Henry  IV,  originated 
in  the  Keltic  braves,  brago  bras  in  Breton,  the  same 
that  Caesar  describes  in  his  Commentaries  (Gal- 
lia braccata.) 

But  here  we  are  talking  of  frills  and  furbelows, 
as  our  train  is  arriving  at  Landerneu.  From  Lan- 
derneu  the  river  Elorn  winds  its  way  to  Brest,  a 
dozen  miles  away,  between  bold  rocks  on  the  left 
and  the  forest  on  the  right  bank.  The  bridge 
which  spans  the  river,  in  the  heart  of  the  town  of 
Landerneu,  is  of  medieval  origin,  and  is  the  only 
example  of  its  kind  in  France.  One  of  the  two 
rows  of  buildings  erected  on  the  bridge  remain 
— among  these  a  mill,  Gothic  in  style,  with  an  in- 
scription in  Gothic  attesting  that  it  was  built  by 
the  Rohans  in  15 10.  The  Lords  of  Landerneu 
were  great  in  their  day.  Madame  de  Sevigne, 
whose  chateau  was  in  Northern  Brittany,  was  not 
familiar  with  the  elaborate  costumes  of  Lower 
Brittany,  and  in  one  of  her  letters  tells  of  a  blunder 
on  her  part,  owing  to  this  ignorance.    One  imag- 


i24  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

ines  this  clever  woman  was  not  often  guilty  of  a 
faux  pas!  It  occurred  in  Vitre,  during  the  ses- 
sions of  the  Breton  Parliament,  at  a  house  where 
she  was  intimate.  She  writes:  "I  saw  before  din- 
ner at  the  end  of  the  room,  a  man  whom  I  took 
to  be  the  steward.  I  went  to  him  and  begged  of 
him,  'Do  let  us  dine,  I  am  dead  with  hunger.'  This 
man  looked  at  me  and  replied  with  great  polite- 
ness: 'My  dear  madame,  I  wish  I  might  be  so 
happy  as  to  offer  you  dinner  at  my  house.  My 
name  is  Recardiere  and  my  chateau  is  only  two 
leagues  from  Landerneu.'  It  was  a  gentleman 
from  Lower  Brittany,"  adds  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

Landerneu  has  been  immortalized  by  her  moon. 
A  Sire  de  Landerneu,  at  Versailles  where  the 
splendours  of  the  Court  failed  to  impress  him,  re- 
marked that  the  moon  at  Landerneu  was  much 
larger  than  that  of  Versailles,  and  his  saying  passes 
still  for  a  joke  upon  the  Breton  town. 

From  this  place  we  make  various  excursions. 
That  to  the  ruins  of  the  Garde  Joyeuse  of  Arthur, 
celebrated  in  the  romance  of  the  Round  Table,  is 
most  interesting.  Only  the  subterranean  vaults, 
the  walls  outlining  the  chateau  and  the  gateway, 
wreathed  with  ivy,  remain  as  a  souvenir  of  that 
magical  Round  Table,  about  which  the  middle  age 
grouped  its  ideals  of  heroism,  beauty,  love  and  loy- 
alty. So  the  Breton,  backed  by  savants,  claims  that 
in  the  Forest  of  Landerneu  Arthur  at  one  time  held 
his  Court. 


BRETON  COSTUMES  125 

As  for  ourselves,  sitting  on  the  greensward  where 
once  may  have  been  the  Court  of  Honor  of  this 
Garde  Joyeuse,  we  are  at  least  grateful  that 
through  this  Legend  we  are  possessed  of  that  gal- 
lery of  fine  old  pictures — the  good  King  Arthur, 
Merlin  the  Enchanter — the  wise  Councillor  Ger- 
vain,  Parsifal,  Champron  of  Spiritual  Knighthood, 
as  are  the  gallant  Launcelot  and  Tristram  of  secu- 
lar chivalry — and  in  this  soft  color  of  a  September 
afternoon  we  evoke  the  image  of  the  proud  and 
beautiful  Guinevere,  the  tender  Yseult  with  the 
blond  hair,  the  sweet  and  patient  Enid  and  the 
fairies  of  the  company,  Vivian  and  Morgan. 

The  drive  from  Landerneu  to  Plougastel  is  de- 
lightful, the  route  following  the  windings  of  the 
river  Elorn.  Plougastel  is  noted  for  its  wonderful 
calvary.  This,  one  of  the  finest  in  Brittany,  is 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  massive,  crowned  with 
two  large  square  tablets  one  above  the  other.  On 
these  are  sculptured  scenes  from  the  life  of  Christ 
— the  Flight  into  Egypt,  the  Marriage  of  Cana, 
the  Foot  Washing  and  the  drama  of  the  Passion 
being  elaborately  set  forth.  Over  two  hundred  fig- 
ures are  sculptured,  inartistically,  but  with  a  cer- 
tain force  and  with  great  naivete.  In  the  scene  of 
the  triumphant  return  of  Christ  to  Jerusalem,  our 
Lord  is  preceded  by  Breton  peasants  in  national 
costumes,  playing  bagpipes. 

A  drive  in  quite  another  direction  takes  us  to 
Notre  Dame  du  Folgoat.    In  the  days  of  Anne  of 


126  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Brittany,  Folgoat  was  as  a  place  of  pilgrimage 
what  Lourdes  is  to-day.  The  miracle,  which  in  the 
fourteenth  century  brought  about  the  building  of 
this  beautiful  church,  is  embodied  in  one  of  the 
best-known  legends  of  Brittany. 

"A  poor  boy,  named  Calaun,  better  known  as  the 
Fool  of  the  Forest  of  Folgoat,  where  he  lived,  had 
the  habit  of  bathing  in  the  water  of  a  fountain,  and 
after  the  bath  swinging  himself  in  the  branches  of 
a  tree  near  the  fountain  until  dry.    He  had  a  way 
of  singing,  as  he  thus  swung,  and  his  sole  song  was 
"Ave  Maria."    No  other  word  ever  passed  his  lips. 
He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door.     The 
legend  records  of  him  that  he  never  gave  offense 
to  any  one.    Thus  he  lived  for  forty  years.     One 
day  poor  Salaun  was  found  dead  near  the  foun- 
tain.   It  was  whispered  about  in  the  parish  that  the 
Virgin  herself  nursed  and  comforted  him,  and  that 
dying,  he  repeated  always  the  sweet  name  of  Mary. 
The  people  of  the  hamlet  buried  him,  and  there 
sprang  from  his  tomb  a  beautiful  white  lily  of 
great  fragrance,  on  the  petals  of  which  were  traced 
in  golden  letters  the  words:  "Ave  Maria."    The 
news  spread  from  hamlet  to  hamlet,  and  all  the 
people  of  the  country  flocked  to  Folgoat  to  see  the 
miraculous  lily.     The  clergy  took  the  matter  in 
hand,  opened  the  grave  and  found  that  the  lily 
had  grown  from  the  mouth  of  the  poor  boy.     It 
was  at  once  resolved  to  build  a  church  there.    Such 
is  the  origin  of  one  of  the  finest  monuments  in 


PHOTO    BY    FRANCES    N.    COSTLING 


THE   BONE   HOUSE   AT   TREGASTEL,    INSCRIBED 
'TODAY   ME.   TOMORROW   THEE" 


BRETON  COSTUMES  127 

Brittany.  The  fountain  still  exists  and  pilgrims 
seek  its  waters  for  cures  of  many  maladies.  Ex- 
cept for  the  pilgrimages  Folgoat  is  quite  deserted. 
The  gem  of  the  interior  of  the  church  is  the  richly 
carved  screen  in  three  arcades,  sculptured  in  lace- 
like designs,  although  the  material  is  the  granite 
of  Kersanton,  of  a  quality  more  like  iron  than 
stone.  In  the  sculptures  which  adorn  the  pulpit 
the  legend  of  the  Fool  of  the  Forest  is  reproduced 
at  the  hands  of  a  sculptor  of  no  ordinary  merit. 

On  the  twenty-ninth  of  August  occurs  the  Fete 
of  Notre  Dame  de  Folgoat — a  fete  very  popular. 
Every  pardon,  as  such  a  fete  is  named,  has  its  own 
characteristics — its  special  canticle.  That  of  Fol- 
goat sets  forth  the  legend  of  the  Fool  of  the  Forest 
and  is  sung  to  the  music  of  a  very  ancient  hymn, 
much  employed  by  the  early  missionaries — prob- 
ably as  early  as  the  fifth  century. 

Patronez  dons  ar  Folgoat, 
Hor  mam  hag  hon  Itron, 
An  dour  en  hon  daoulagat, 
Ni  ho  ped  a  galon! 
Harpit  an  I  Hz  S  ant  el; 
Avel  diroll  a  ra  .  .  . 
Tenn  hag  hir  eo  ar  brezel! 
Ar  peoch  0  Maria* 


*  Douce  patronne  du  Folgoat,  Notre  Mere  et  notre  Dame.  Les 
larrncs  aux  yeux,  Nous  vous  prions  de  tout  coeur,  Secourez  I'eglise 
Sainte.  II  y  a  grand  vent,  la  lutte  est  dure  et  longue.  Donnez-nous 
la  paix,  6  Maria. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BREST    AND   THE    ADJACENT    ISLAND 

BREST  is  an  important  commercial  point.  It  has 
a  port  of  renown,  a  military  record,  fine  fortifica- 
tions, a  museum,  a  naval  academy — all  illustrative 
of  the  energy  of  Richelieu  and  Louis  XIV.  And 
to  us  of  the  United  States  there  is  the  thrilling 
souvenir  that  from  the  harbour  of  Brest  on  July 
2,  1778,  sailed  the  fleet  which  bore  from  the  King 
of  France  the  recognition  of  the  success  of  our 
cause.  The  World  War  of  1914  made  of  Brest 
a  port  of  great  activity.  When  America  entered 
the  war  it  became  the  principal  port  of  debarka- 
tion. 

"He  is  no  Duke  of  Brittany,  who  is  not  master 
of  Brest,"  was  an  old  saying  centuries  ago. 

But  far  more  interesting  than  Brest  to  the  trav- 
eller is  a  certain  island  lying  off  against  the  west- 
ern horizon — an  island  surrounded  by  perilous 
seas  and  full  of  romantic  interests.  It  is  the  Island 
of  Ouessant — scene  of  many  shipwrecks  and  of 
much  suffering.    Not  a  tree  can  find  root  upon  this 

128 


BREST    AND    THE    ADJACENT    ISLAND     129 

block  of  granite.  But  in  spite  of  an  ungenial  Na- 
ture, Ouessant  yields  a  sturdy  race  of  men  and 
women.  The  coif  of  the  women  reminds  one  of 
the  Neapolitan.  The  Island  of  Ouessant  yields  no 
money  to  the  treasury  of  France,  but  it  furnishes 
the  bravest  and  most  intrepid  sailors  to  her  marine. 
The  record  of  Ouessant  a  few  years  ago  was: 
"Neither  a  beggar,  a  rogue,  a  rich  man  nor  a  bot- 
tle of  brandy  on  the  island."  There  is  on  the  island 
a  circular  wall  of  stones  called:  "The  Temple  of 
the  Pagans,"  and  at  one  point  there  is  a  row  of 
upright  stones.  These  recall  legends  of  the  druid- 
esses,  which  we  shall  mention  when  we  visit 
Carnac. 

The  qualities  of  the  people  of  Ouessant  are  ad- 
mirable. Difficulties  without  danger  often  harden 
the  disposition  and  make  it  selfish,  while  difficul- 
ties with  danger  sublimate  the  character  and  give 
it  a  romantic  nature.  To  these  people  their  life 
seems  to  have  given  a  kind  of  noble  recklessness, 
joined  to  unusual  tenderness,  made  evident  in  their 
behavior  in  time  of  danger.  Hospitality  to  the 
shipwrecked  is  the  essential  cult  of  these  natives 
of  Ouessant,  and  theft  from  the  unhappy  victims 
is  a  thing  unknown.  In  the  June  of  1896  the  Eng- 
lish ship  Drummond  Castle  went  to  pieces  of!  thi^ 
island  and  many  of  the  drowned  bodies  were 
washed  ashore.  To  one  who  knows  that  the  fete 
costume  of  a  woman  of  Finistere  is  made  to  last 
a  lifetime,  and  what  store  she  sets  on  her  meager 


i3o  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

supply  of  house  linen,  the  scene  of  these  peasants 
of  Ouessant  shrouding  the  bodies  of  the  drowned 
English  in  their  finest  linen  and  dressing  the  young 
women  and  children  in  their  own  pretty  costumes, 
suggests  great  sacrifice.  They  carved  wooden 
crosses  for  each  coffin,  women  knelt  beside  these, 
the  night  through,  praying  for  the  souls  of  the 
shipwrecked.  The  parish  priest  next  day  said  mass 
and  the  burials  were  made  in  the  little  cemetery 
of  the  island  amid  the  tears  and  prayers  of  the 
entire  population.  Such  scenes  are  not  unfamiliar 
at  Ouessant,  and  the  recitals  of  the  heroism  of  its 
brave  men  and  generous  and  tender  women  make 
of  this  barren  granite  rock  a  precious  record  of 
the  good  that  is  in  human  nature. 

The  sea  that  washes  the  rugged  coasts  of  Brit- 
tany is  sown  with  islands — each  with  its  own 
especial  story — often  dramatic  and  thrilling. 
Stretching  far  out  into  these  turbulent  waters, 
Brittany  is  itself  almost  an  island  and  at  Pointe  du 
Raz  in  Finistere,  furnishes  the  most  western  point 
of  the  European  continent. 

Following  the  coast  line  to  the  north  we  find  the 
island  Sein,  the  Sena  of  the  Roman  historian.  The 
passage  from  the  Pointe  du  Raz  to  this  island  is 
dangerous,  and  the  ancient  prayer  still  serves  the 
mariner  of  to-day:  "Help  me,  O  God,  in  cross- 
ing the  Raz.  My  boat  is  so  small  and  the  sea  is 
so  large." 

It  is  a  bleak  bit  of  an  island  and  is  associated 


BREST   AND   THE   ADJACENT   ISLAND     131 

with  the  druidesses — for  the  tradition  is  that  on 
this  island  lived  the  nine  damsels  to  whom  was  en- 
trusted the  sacred  vase  of  the  druids.  These  gath- 
ered, with  strict  regard  to  planetary  rule,  the  po- 
tent herbs  which,  mixed  with  foam  of  the  sea,  and 
boiled  a  year  and  a  day,  furnished  the  water  of 
inspiration  to  the  druidic  bard.  The  decoction 
was  placed  in  a  sacred  vase  and  three  drops  of  this 
mystic  brew,  placed  upon  the  lips  by  the  hand, 
enabled  him  to  behold  the  future. 

To-day  we  find  druidic  stones  survive  as  souve- 
nirs of  the  sacred  nine  who  inhabited  the  island. 
There  are  but  two  wells  of  water  on  the  island, 
these  to-day  form  the  centre  of  social  life.  Young 
girls  fill  their  water  jugs  and  lean  upon  the  rail- 
ing listening  to  the  tale  of  the  lover.  The  scene  re- 
minds one  of  patriarchal  days.  In  the  little  church 
the  poetic  Breton  Angelus  is  still  sung.  But,  un- 
like their  neighbours  of  the  island  of  Ouessant, 
alchoholism  has  made  a  footing  on  the  isle  of  Sein. 
Every  pretext  for  libations  is  improved — baptisms 
of  babies,  baptisms  of  ships,  religious  fetes,  wed- 
dings and  burials.  They  make  a  pleasure  of  be- 
coming intoxicated — suggesting  a  touch  of  epi- 
cureanism which  Horace  would  have  loved. 

Villemarque  quotes  a  saying  commonly  em- 
ployed by  the  imbiber  of  the  isle  of  Sein — as  he 
lifts  his  glass  to  his  lips:  "Within  this  cup  which 
I  now  drain  shines  the  entrance  of  the  earthly 
Paradise."    This  sentiment  so  coincides  with  Er- 


132  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

nest  Renan's  statement  concerning  the  tendency  of 
the  Breton  to  drunkenness  that  it  is  worth  noting. 
He  says:  "The  essential  element  of  the  Breton 
character  is  ideality — the  pursuit  of  the  unknown. 
His  imagination  is  boundless.  This  element  of 
the  Breton  nature  is  seen  even  in  his  tendency  to 
drunkenness.  It  comes  from  this  invincible  need 
of  illusions,  not  from  gross  appetite,  for  never  were 
people  less  given  to  grossness  or  sensuality — No/ 
the  Breton  seeks  in  his  hydromel  a  vision  of  some- 
thing outside  himself.  He  forever  hungers  and 
thirsts  for  what  is  unknown  and  invisible." 

One  of  the  most  important  islands  is  Belle-Ile- 
en-Mer.  The  entire  island  is  a  plateau  lying  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  sea  and  it  possesses 
sixty  safe  harbors.  The  soil  is  good  and  well  cul- 
tivated, and  the  island  is  sown  with  little  villages. 
The  climate  is  so  genial  that  the  laurel  and  fig  tree 
flourish.  A  romantic  interest  attaches  itself  to  this 
island.  In  1572  the  Abbes  of  St.  Croix  ceded  the 
island  to  Marshal  de  Retz  (Rais),  the  original  of 
the  Breton  Blue  Beard  Legends,  in  exchange  for 
land  on  the  continent.  His  descendant,  Cardinal 
de  Retz,  brought  great  fortune  to  the  island.  The 
wit,  sangfroid,  elegance  and  love  affairs  of  this 
lover  of  the  Duchesse  de  Longueville  are  always 
associated  with  the  place.  When  the  Cardinal  es- 
caped from  prison  he  fled  to  this  island.  Later  on 
he  sold  the  island  to  Fouquet,  Louis  XIV's  Minis- 
ter of  Finance,  who  himself  was  arrested  in  1661 


BREST    AND   THE   ADJACENT    ISLAND     133 

for  irregularities.  He  had  a  dream  of  entrench- 
ing himself  at  Belle-Ile  and  resisting  Louis  XIV, 
but  awoke  from  his  dream  to  find  himself  in  the 
Bastille.  Alexander  Dumas  places  on  this  island  a 
scene  from  the, "Three  Musketeers,"  and  Balzac 
chooses  it  as  the  scene  of  a  novel.  And  lastly  comes 
Sarah  Bernhardt  to  perch  herself  in  one  of  the  de- 
serted towers  of  the  fortifications,  for  her  short 
summer  holiday.  The  peasants  of  the  island  com- 
prehended with  difficulty  the  movements  and  hab- 
its of  the  "great  Sarah,"  who,  with  her  pet  lions, 
dogs  and  other  animals,  her  pistols,  guns  and  tar- 
get-shooting, made  the  island  lively  for  these  prim- 
itive folk,  during  every  August.  But  her  generous 
and  tactful  consideration  of  the  needs  of  the  people 
and  their  little  churches  has  won  the  affection  of 
her  fellow  islanders. 

The  crossing  to  Belle-Ile  from  Quiberon  is  dif- 
ficult and  must  be  attempted  only  at  the  discretion 
of  the  sailors,  who  know  the  perils  of  these  waters. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AUDIERNE   AND   THE   LEGEND   OF   YS 

RETURNING  from  the  Isle  of  Sein  to  the  main- 
land, we  come  to  Audierne.  Some  of  the  letters 
of  Robert  Browning  have  made  many  familiar 
with  this  part  of  Brittany. 

All  about  this  bay  of  Douarnenez  legends  of 
these  wild  seas  abound.  No  one  of  these  is  so 
prominent  as  the  Legend  of  Ys,  an  ancient  city 
which  stood  on  the  shore  of  the  Bay  of  Douar- 
ninez. 

The  French  composer  Lalo,  in  his  opera  "he 
Rot  d'Ys"  makes  use  of  a  libretto  of  which  this 
legend  furnishes  the  thesis.  The  Legend  of  Ys 
tells  us  that  the  great  King  Gradlon  had  for  his 
chief  Councillor  St.  Corentin  of  Quimper.  This 
Saint  often  visited  the  King  at  Ys  and  preached 
against  the  iniquities  practised  in  that  city.  Now 
the  daughter  of  Gradlon,  Princess  Dahut,  was  the 
most  wicked  person  in  the  city.  The  peasants  of 
Huelgoat  in  Finistere  still  point  out  a  gulf  into 
which  Dahut  had  an  unpleasant  habit  of  throw- 
ing her  discarded  lovers.    But  at  last  God  wished 

134 


AUDIERNE  AND  THE   LEGEND  OF  YS     135 

to  punish  the  city  of  Ys  for  its  crimes,  and  Dahut 
became  his  instrument.  The  gates  of  the  dykes 
and  locks,  which  protected  the  city  from  the  sea, 
could  be  unlocked  only  by  the  King  with  a  gold 
key  which  he  always  wore  suspended  about  his 
neck.  To  one  of  her  lovers  Dahut  had  promised 
this  key.  While  her  father  slept  she  stole  it  from 
his  neck.  Shortly  after,  torrents  of  water  flooded 
the  city!  St.  Guenole  hastened  to  Gradlon  and 
warned  him  to  flee.  The  King  took  his  daughter 
but  was  overtaken  by  the  waves.  A  terrible  voice 
commanded  Gradlon  to  separate  himself  from  his 
daughter,  who  rode  behind  him  in  the  saddle.  The 
King  recognized  this  as  the  voice  of  God.  He 
abandoned  his  daughter  to  the  waves  and  the 
waters  subsided.  But  the  City  of  Ys  with  all  its 
inhabitants  was  submerged,  and  next  day  only  the 
Bay  of  Douarnenez  was  to  be  seen.  There  is  an 
ancient  song,  discovered  by  Villemarque  and  trans- 
lated by  him  from  the  Keltic  into  French,  entitled 
"The  Submersion  of  Ys,"  in  which  the  horse  of 
Gradlon  is  represented  as  a  wild  horse  and  the 
daughter  turned  into  a  mermaid.  We  give  a  free 
translation  of  the  poem,  much  less  poetic  than  it 
should  be. 

The  song  is  in  five  scenes  and  goes  thus: 

Scene  I 

"Hast  thou  heard?    Hast  thou  heard  what  the 
man  of  God  said  to  King  Gradlon  of  Ys?    These 


1 36  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

are  the  words  which  the  holy  man  said  to  King 
Gradlon  of  Ys:  'Beware  of  giving  yourself  up  to 
pleasure.  Beware  of  giving  yourself  up  to  fol- 
lies.   After  pleasure  comes  grief.'  " 

Scene  II 

King  Gradlon  spake  unto  his  guests  at  the  feast: 
"Oh!  joyous  guests,  I  fain  would  go  to  my  cham- 
ber and  sleep."  Then  answered  him  those  at  the 
feast :  "Oh !  King,  stay  with  us.  Stay  with  us  yet  a 
little.  To-morrow  can  ye  sleep.  Nevertheless  do 
what  seemeth  good  unto  thee."  Then  the  lover 
whispers  softly — whispers  softly  in  the  ear  of  the 
King's  daughter  these  words:  "Sweet  Dahut,  the 
key."  And  the  Princess  whispered  softly,  whis- 
pered softly  in  the  ear  of  her  lover:  "The  key  shall 
be  stolen — the  gates  that  guard  the  city  from  the 
sea  shall  be  unlocked.  Let  all  things  be  unto  thy 
desire." 

Scene  III 

Now  whosoever  had  seen  the  old  King  asleep  in 
his  chamber  would  have  been  moved  with  admira- 
tion— with  admiration — seeing  him  asleep  in  his 
royal  chamber — seeing  him  robed  in  his  purple 
mantle — his  snow-white  hair  floating  over  his 
shoulders  and  the  gold  chain  with  the  golden  key, 
about  his  neck. 


A    BRETON    FISHERMAN 
After  the  picture  by  Lucicn  Simon 


AUDIERNE   AND   THE  LEGEND  OF  YS     137 

And  whosoever  had  been  watching  would  have 
seen  the  white  young  girl  entering  softly,  bare- 
footed— entering  softly  the  chamber  of  the  King. 
She  draws  near  to  the  King,  her  father.  She 
kneels.  She  steals  from  his  neck  the  gold  chain 
and  the  key. 

Scene  IV 

He  sleeps  on.  The  King  sleeps  on.  But  a  shout 
arises  from  below:  "The  Sea!  The  Sea!  The 
Sea  has  burst  forth!  The  city  is  submerged." 
(Then  St.  Guenole  appears.)  "My  Lord!  Oh, 
King!  arise,  arise  and  mount  the  swiftest  horse. 
The  Sea,  let  loose,  has  burst  its  dykes.  Cursed  be 
the  white  young  girl  who  has  opened  the  gates  of 
the  locks  of  Ys — this  barrier  of  the  Sea." 

Scene  V 

"Woodsman!  Woodsman!  tell  me — hast  thou 
seen  the  wild  horse  of  King  Gradlon  pass  through 
the  valley?"  "I  have  not  seen  the  wild  horse  of 
King  Gradlon  pass  through  the  valley.  I  only 
heard  in  the  black  night  the  sound  of  his  hoofs: 
trip-trep — trip-trep,  swift  as  fire."  "Hast  thou 
seen,  oh!  fisherwoman,  the  daughter  of  the  Sea, 
the  white  daughter  of  the  Sea  combing  her  golden 
hair  at  mid-day — at  mid-day,  on  the  shore  of  the 
Sea?"    "I  have  heard  her  singing,  sitting  on  the 


138  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

shore  of  the  Sea,  combing  her  golden  hair.  I 
have  heard  her  singing.  Her  songs  are  as  sad  as 
the  waves." 

The  French  critics  say  that  of  the  writings  of 
Ernest  Renan  two  bits  share  the  honour  of  being 
the  most  beautiful — one  of  these  is:  "The  Prayer 
on  the  Acropolis" — the  other,  the  preface  of  his 
volume:  "Souvenirs  d'Enfance  et  de  Jeunesse." 
The  latter,  from  which  we  quote,  we  owe  to  this 
Breton  Legend  of  Ys.  Renan  says:  "One  of  the 
legends,  the  best  known  in  Brittany,  is  that  of  a 
pretended  city  of  Ys,  which,  at  an  unknown  epoch, 
was  swallowed  up  by  the  sea.  They  point  out  the 
site  of  this  fabulous  city  and  the  fishermen  tell  you 
strange  tales.  On  days  of  tempest  they  assure  you 
they  see  in  the  trough  of  the  waves  the  peaks  of  its 
church  spires.  On  calm  days  they  hear  rising  from 
its  depths  the  sound  of  its  bells  intoning  the  hymn 
of  the  day." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

QUIMPER,    LA   FAOUET,    ST.    FIACRE   AND   THE 
VENUS  OF  QUINIPILY 

It  OFTEN  happens  to  the  traveller  in  Brittany,  to 
encounter  in  unexpected  places,  beautiful  and 
ancient  chapels — sometimes  in  the  depths — some- 
times on  the  edge  of  a  forest,  sometimes  standing 
quite  alone  in  a  field.  Most  of  these  have  fallen 
into  disuse  but  not  into  decay.  A  celebrated 
French  archaeologist,  Freminville,  holds  that  as  St. 
Louis  brought  architects  from  the  Orient,  we  owe 
many  of  the  architectural  treasures  of  France  to 
them.  A  local  Breton  tradition  has  it  that  several 
of  the  churches  in  Finistere  were  formerly  con- 
ventual houses  of  the  Order  of  the  Templars  and 
it  is  an  established  fact  that  the  Knights  of  the 
Temple  of  Jerusalem  had  many  possessions  in 
Brittany,  priories,  commanderies,  chapels,  etc. 

A  mile  from  Landerneu  we  find  a  chapel  of  the 
sixteenth  century  dedicated  to  St.  Eloi.  This  holy 
personage  is  represented  in  the  liturgy  of  Brittany 
with  twofold  attributes  of  Bishop  and  Blacksmith. 
He  is  one  of  the  patron  saints  of  horses. 

139 


t4o  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

And  now,  although  there  are  many  other  places 
of  interest  in  the  region  about  Landerneu,  we 
must  leave  them  behind  and  take  train  for  Quim- 
per,  our  next  objective  point.  This,  like  all  Bret- 
on towns,  has  its  local  legends.  Chief  of  these 
is  that  of  St.  Corentin,  who  went  into  retirement 
at  Plomodiern  near  Quimper.  Here  occurred  the 
miracle  of  the  fish,  a  morsel  of  which  he  ate  daily, 
the  remainder  resuming  at  once  its  entirety.  No 
wonder  he  became  Bishop  of  the  Diocese.  This 
was  in  the  fifth  century.  St.  Corentin  is  to-day  the 
patron  of  the  town,  and  its  lovely  cathedral  is  dedi- 
cated to  his  name.  This  dates  from  the  twelfth 
century.  Tombs  of  dukes,  archbishops  and  numer- 
ous knights  and  ladies  line  the  outer  aisles,  and  the 
panels  of  the  granite  pulpit  represent  various  epi- 
sodes in  the  life  of  the  Saint. 

It  is  at  Quimper  that  we  purchase  the  Breton 
faience,  which  is  so  popular  with  artists  and  which 
has  come  to  be  considerably  known  in  the  United 
States.  The  river  Odet  runs  through  the  principal 
street  of  the  town,  the  favourite  promenade  of  the 
citizens  being  along  the  banks.  From  our  windows 
of  the  hotel  we  see  the  women  washing  their  linen 
in  the  stream  as  their  mothers  and  grandmothers 
did  in  their  time. 

From  Quimper  we  will  make  a  little  excursion 
into  the  mountainous  part  of  Brittany.  The  Black 
and  the  Arez  mountains,  we  should  call  them  hills, 
offer  picturesque  scenery,  and  the  people  are  more 


QUIMPER,  LA  FAOUET,  ST.  FIACRE        141 

primitive  in  their  ideas  than  those  on  the  coasts. 
Folk-Lorists  find  many  curious  tales  and  songs  in 
the  mountains  of  Arez,  where  they  are  still  sung 
in  the  Breton  language. 

La  Faouet  is  one  of  the  interesting  places  which 
we  shall  find  in  this  side-journey.  And  there  is 
Carhaix,  birthplace  of  the  First  Grenadier  of 
France,  and  if  one's  visit  chance  to  coincide  with 
its  fete  on  the  last  Sunday  in  August,  the  place  of 
the  famous  wrestling  matches.  And  Pontivy  with 
its  ruined  castle  of  the  Rohans. 

The  presiding  saint  of  La  Faouet  is  St.  Fiacre, 
patron  of  horticulturists.  It  has  come  about  that 
Fiacre  is  also  the  patron  of  the  Paris  cabbies — in 
this  way.  Long  ago  an  Irishman  named  Savage 
brought  to  Paris  many  plants  hitherto  unknown  in 
France — in  fact  he  gave  a  great  impetus  to  horti- 
culture in  that  country.  He  chose  for  his  patron 
St.  Fiacre.  A  compatriot  of  his  later  on  inaugu- 
rated a  line  of  public  carriages  and  on  every  one, 
in  compliment  to  his  fellow  Irishman,  the  face  of 
St.  Fiacre  was  painted,  as  a  distinguishing  feature 
of  his  undertaking.  This  caused  the  vehicle  itself 
to  take  the  name  of  the  Patron  Saint  of  Horticul- 
ture— thus  sharing  in  the  protection  of  a  saint  al- 
ways honoured  in  Paris  as  well  as  in  Brittany. 

Our  next  point  of  interest  is  Quimperle.  This 
town  possesses  most  interesting  churches,  is  alto- 
gether a  charming  place,  planted  amidst  verdure 
and  flowers  in  the  valley  of  the  two  rivers;  the 


1 42  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Elle  and  the  Isole,  which,  after  their  juncture,  take 
the  name  La  Lai'ta.  Everything  about  the  place 
is  as  pretty  as  are  the  names  of  its  rivers,  and  Quim- 
perle  fairly  deserves  the  title  given  it:  "The  Ar- 
cady  of  Lower  Brittany." 

In  the  court  of  a  chateau  near  Le  Faouet,  of 
which  nothing  now  remains  but  the  entrance  gate- 
way, we  find  by  far  the  most  curious  archaeological 
object  in  the  Province — "The  Venus  of  Quinip- 
ily."  It  is  six  feet  high,  and  its  origin  has  served 
as  a  perpetual  puzzle  to  the  archaeologists.  Some 
believe  it  to  be  an  Egyptian  statue,  others  a 
Roman — Prosper  Merimee  places  it  in  the  six- 
teenth century — but  the  majority  of  savants  to-day 
believe  it  to  be  of  a  more  ancient  date.  M.  Cayot 
Delandre  insists  that  it  is  an  Isis;  it  has  the  Egyp- 
tian characteristics:  the  stiffness  of  pose,  the  mate- 
rial, the  coiffure  and  stole.  He  accounts  for  its 
presence  where  it  now  stands  thus:  Certain  Orien- 
tal legions  were  incorporated  in  the  Roman  army 
which  guarded  the  mountains  of  Casternec,  in  this 
region  where  archaeologists  place  the  Roman  sta- 
tion of  Sulis.  These  Oriental  legions  brought  with 
them  their  Goddess  or  Divinity  for  protection  from 
danger. 

The  Bretons  call  this  statue  "Groach  er  Gouard" 
—  (Sorceress  of  the  Guard) — a  name  which  dates 
from  a  remote  period.  This  statue  has  been  vener- 
ated by  the  Bretons  for  hundreds  of  years.  It  was 
especially  invoked  by  husbands  and  wives  desirous 


QUIMPER,  LA  FAOUET,  ST.  FIACRE        143 

of  having  children.  The  clergy  disapproved  of 
the  cult  and  threw  the  statue  into  the  river,  where 
it  lay  for  a  century  or  more.  The  Bretons  then 
recovered  it  and  the  cult  was  resumed ;  they  were 
about  to  demolish  it  when  the  Count  owning  the 
chateau — himself  something  of  an  archaeologist — 
rescued  it,  and  placed  it  on  a  pedestal  in  the  court 
of  his  chateau — and  there  the  Isis  stands  solitary 
in  its  lonely  environment — an  Isis  in  this  strangely 
Roman  Catholic  country — is  indeed  an  anachro- 
nism. No  one  has  been  able  to  decipher  the  char- 
acters engraved  on  the  forehead  (L.  I.  I.  or  I. 
L.  I.,  or  something  similar.) 

The  costume  of  the  women  of  Quimperle  thrills 
all  feminine  Brittany  with  the  same  emotions  that 
a  Doucet  or  Paquin  gown  inspires  in  the  heart  of 
some  of  us. 

Lastly  Quimperle  boasts  of  an  excellent  hotel — 
the  Lion  d'Or,  where  everything  essential  is  to  be 
found — even  to  the  ghost  which  walks  at  midnight 
through  the  main  corridor. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   COUNTRY   OF    "GUENN" 

FROM  Quimperle  we  drive  to  the  two  little  towns 
made  familiar  to  us,  under  fictitious  names — years 
ago— through  Blanche  Willis  Howard's  story  of 
"Guenn."  The  book  so  thoroughly  describes  these 
two  places  that  we  need  not  repeat.  In  fact  a  trav- 
eller visiting  Pont-Aven  and  Concarneau  is  likely 
to  find  himself  verifying  the  book  at  every  turn. 
The  mistress  of  the  Hotel  des  Voyageurs  described 
so  perfectly  in  the  book  thus:  "Madame  had  the 
air  of  a  Roman  matron  in  a  Breton  coif" — is  still 
living  not  far  from  her  little  hotel  and  she  tells  us 
many  interesting  things  sitting  with  us  over  our 
coffee  at  one  of  the  tables  outside.  Tells  us  how 
the  author  of  the  book,  which  was  written  in  the 
corner  room  up  one  flight,  used  to  inveigle  her  into 
long  conversations,  she  herself  little  suspecting 
that  she  was  being  put  into  a  story.  Nor  did  she 
know  her  fate  until  ten  years  after  the  book  was 
printed,  when  an  American  arriving  in  Concarneau 
drew  from  his  pocket  the  "Tauchnitz,"  and  pro- 

144 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  "GUENN"  145 

ceeded  to  verify  its  characters,  beginning  with 
Madame  herself.  She  tells  us  of  the  good  cure  of 
the  Lannions  in  the  story,  how  on  stormy  nights  he 
used  to  light  his  lantern  and  search  along  the  rocky 
shores  of  his  island  for  the  shipwrecked — how  he 
worked  among  his  fisher  folk  and  shared  his  food 
and  money  with  them,  visiting  the  sick,  comfort- 
ing the  afflicted.  He  died  only  a  few  years  ago — 
died  on  his  island  among  his  people — instead  of 
wandering  off  to  Rome  and  immuring  himself  in 
a  cloister  as  the  story  has  it.  And  our  "Roman 
matron  in  a  coif"  takes  us  to  see  "Guenn" — the 
veritable  "Guenn"  of  the  story,  who  escaped  the 
drowning  of  the  last  chapter  only  to  marry  a 
"ne'er-do-well."  We  drive  to  the  house  in  a 
shabby  quarter  of  the  town,  and  are  told  that 
"Guenn"  is  at  the  lavoir  doing  the  family  washing. 
Thither  we  go.  The  scene  seems  little  changed 
to-day.  The  women  bend  over  their  pile  of  linen ; 
the  paddles  and  the  tongues  are  all  going  together; 
rows  of  many-colored  and  much  patched  garments 
hang  over  the  hedges  drying  in  the  sun.  Only  the 
actors  in  the  scene  are  changed — of  the  old  group 
described  in  the  book — only  "Guenn"  remains. 
She  bends  over  the  soiled  linen  of  her  pathetic 
menage.  She  soaps  and  paddles,  but  she  does  not 
sing  as  of  old — not  even  her  "wicked  little  song" 
does  she  sing.  She  looks  up  from  her  paddling — 
seeks  Madame  of  the  Voyageurs,  always  a  stanch 
friend — in    the    book    and    out    of    it — and    she 


146  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

comes.  The  years  have  made  havoc  of  the 
lines  of  her  face.  There  is  nothing  left  of  the 
flashing  exuberant  child.  Poverty  and  discipline 
have  had  their  way.  But  in  the  pathetic  face 
turned  up  to  us  we  find  a  pair  of  fine  eyes — tired- 
looking  they  are,  but  still  full  of  expression,  and 
we  sigh:  Poor  little  "Guenn"! 

On  a  lovely  summer  afternoon  at  Nizon,  which 
is  near  Pont-Aven,  the  sound  of  the  vesper  bells 
of  the  ancient  church  recalled  this  old  song.  It  is 
supposed  to  be  sung  by  a  young  Breton  of  the  par- 
ish of  Nizon  and  portrays  the  naive  and  delicate 
wooing  of  the  Breton  youth. 

"All  of  the  household  have  gone  to  the  aire  neuve, 
I  also  must  go  with  them  to  the  fete : 

Ring,  bells  of  Nizon — ring,  ring. 
There  was  no  lack  of  young  men  at  the  fete 
Nor  of  pretty  girls  was  there  lack. 

Ring,  bells  of  Nizon — ring,  ring. 
My  heart  beat  when  I  heard  the  binions  playing, 
Then  I  saw  a  young  girl  dancing: 
She  was  as  sweet  as  a  turtle  dove. 

Ring,  bells  of  Nizon — ring,  ring. 
Her  eyes  shone  like  drops  of  dew  on  the 
Blossom  of  the  white  thorn  at  the  dawning  of  the 
day. 

Ring,  bells  of  Nizon — ring,  ring. 
And  they  were  blue  like  the  flower  of  the  flax, 
Her  teeth  were  as  beautiful  as  precious  stones. 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  "GUENN"  147 

Ring,  bells  of  Nizon — ring,  ring. 
And  she  was  full  of  life  and  joy.    And  she  looked 
At  me.    And  I — I  looked  at  her.    And  I  went  to 

her 
To  invite  her To  invite  her  for  the  gavotte. 

Ring,  bells  of  Nizon — ring,  ring. 
And  as  we  danced  together 
— As  we  danced  I  pressed  her  little 
White  hand.    And  she  began  to  smile — 
To  smile  as  sweetly  as  an  angel  in  Paradise. 
And  I  began  to  smile  at  her.    And  from 
That  moment  I  love  only  her. 

Ring,  bells  of  Nizon — ring,  ring. 
To-night  at  twilight  I  shall  go  to  her,  and  I 
Shall  take  to  her  a  velvet  ribbon  and  a  cross, 
A  band  of  velvet  and  a  cross.    Oh !  how  it  will 
Glisten  on  her  little  bare  throat,  and  I 
Will  take  to  her  a  silver  ring  to  put  upon 
Her  pretty  little  finger — 

To  put  upon  her  finger  that  she  may  sometimes 
think  of  me. 

Ring,  bells  of  Nizon — ring,  ring!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

BRIZEUX— THE  NATIONAL  POET  OF  BRITTANY 

Leaving  Concarneau,  an  hour  by  train  brings 
us  to  Lorient.  As  a  town,  the  place  contains  little 
of  interest.  It  is  ugly,  modern  and  commercial. 
But  there  is  one  spot  here  to  which  the  faithful 
pilgrim  is  sure  to  turn.  Not  for  its  beauty  of  sur- 
rounding, for  the  cemetery  of  Lorient  shares  the 
ugliness  of  the  town.  But  in  this  cemetery  is  the 
tomb  of  Brittany's  national  poet — Brizeux. 

To  know  the  poems  of  Brizeux  is  to  know  the 
Bretons  and  Lower  Brittany.  They  record  the 
traits  and  customs  of  his  people.  In  these  verses 
the  poet  sings  of  his  youth,  of  the  little  "Morie" 
of  the  Pardons,  the  fete  of  St.  Jean,  the  songs  of 
the  bards,  the  tales  of  the  beggars — of  the  fairies 
and  dolmens  and  legends  of  his  country.  His 
"Sea-Gulls,"  a  song  sung  by  the  young  girls  of  Le 
Croisic  as  their  lovers  depart  on  their  long  voyage, 
is  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  the  poems  of 
Brizeux. 

At  the  inauguration  of  the  Statue  of  Brizeux  at 

148 


BRIZEUX  149 

Lorient  in  1888,  Ernest  Renan  in  his  discourse,  in 
such  exquisite  French  which  even  translation  into 
English  does  not  rob  of  its  beauty,  said:  "It  has 
been  said  that  Brizeux  made  Brittany  known  to 
France.  It  is  perhaps  saying  too  much.  But  he 
certainly  portrays  one  exquisite  thing  among  oth- 
ers— and  that  is — Breton  love — wise,  tender,  pro- 
found and  faithful — with  its  delicate  touch  of  mys- 
ticism. In  the  poem  'Morie'  he  shows  us  two 
young  people  passing  hours  together  without 
speaking  a  word,  hers  a  sweet,  modest,  rosy  face 
under  a  little  white  coif — nothing  more — for 
Brizeux  that  suffices.  What  adorable  simplicity 
of  means! — no  jewels,  no  costumes — scarcely  flow- 
ers— mere  color  is  useless — the  black  and  white  of 
the  peasant  of  Finistere  suffice  to  set  off  the  rich- 
ness of  a  virginal  tint.  The  effect  of  beauty  ob- 
tained by  charm.  This  is  the  triumph  of  the 
Breton  esthetic — therein  is  the  art  of  Brizeux." 

Some  years  ago  we  celebrated  at  Lorient  the 
centennial  of  the  birth  of  Brizeux.  It  required 
three  days  to  complete  the  ceremonies  which  in- 
cluded a  requiem  mass  in  the  church,  a  gala  per- 
formance at  the  theatre,  processions  to  the  house 
where  the  poet  was  born  in  1803,  to  his  statue  on 
the  public  square,  and  to  his  tomb.  At  all  three 
places  the  poets  recited  their  verses,  and  the  bards 
sang  their  songs.  Garden  parties  with  national 
dances  and  binion  playing  and  a  final  banquet  com- 
bined to  restore  to  the  people  of  Lorient  the  souve- 


150  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

nirs  of  the  poet  who  is  more  dear  to  the  bards  of 
Brittany  than  any  other  of  the  Breton  poets. 

Visiting  the  tomb  of  Brizeux,  we  are  glad  that 
his  wish,  expressed  in  the  "Song  of  the  Oak"  (re- 
calling the  druidic  bards  of  old  Armorica),  has 
been  carried  out,  and  the  description  written  there- 
on reads:  "He  sang  of  his  country  and  made  it 
beloved." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HENNEBONT  AND  THE  BALLAD  OF  JEANNE  DE 
MONTFORT 

From  Lorient  we  travel  by  train  for  a  half-hour 
and  arrive  at  Hennebont.  The  old  town  is  inter- 
esting to-day  because  of  its  medieval  streets  and 
houses  and  its  beautiful  Gothic  church.  But  Hen- 
nebont tells  an  ancient  story — one  of  the  most  ro- 
mantic in  Breton  history.  That  of  Jeanne  de 
Montfort,  a  very  intrepid  woman  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  who  gave  a  Jeanne  d'Arc  to  Brittany, 
eighty-five  years  before  France  found  her  own 
Maid  of  Orleans. 

During  the  one  hundred  years  war  in  the  four- 
teenth century  the  Duchy  of  Brittany  was  claimed 
by  both  the  Count  of  Montfort,  half-brother  of 
Duke  John  III  of  Brittany,  and  Charles  of  Blois, 
nephew  of  Philippe  le  Bel,  King  of  France.  At 
one  moment  Brittany  was  without  a  leader.  The 
Duke  of  Montfort  had  been  captured  in  battle  and 
imprisoned  in  the  Louvre  at  Paris.  Brittany,  in  her 
helplessness,  was  in  danger  of  turning  to  Charles 

151 


152  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

of  Blois.  The  Countess  Jeanne  de  Montfort  was 
at  Rennes  when  she  learned  of  the  imprisonment 
of  her  husband.  After  a  period  of  grief  she  took 
courage  and  set  out  as  a  soldier.  A  fourteenth  cen- 
tury militant  was  our  Jeanne  de  Montfort!  Car- 
rying her  baby  in  her  arms  she  went  to  the  Parlia- 
ment of  her  Province  where  she  inspired  all  with 
hope  and  courage,  after  which  she  goes  on  horse- 
back through  Lower  Brittany  putting  garrisons  in 
order  and  prepares  her  army.  Charles  of  Blois, 
in  the  spring  of  1342,  starts  out  with  his  army, 
thinking  to  make  an  easy  conquest  of  a  country 
without  a  leader.  But  Jeanne  had  foreseen  every- 
thing and  was  ready  for  him.  Never  had  the  hour 
and  the  woman  so  coincided  in  the  annals  of  Brit- 
tany. 

She  came  to  the  town  we  are  now  visiting — Hen- 
nebout.  She  sent  messengers  to  England  to  seek 
aid  of  Edward  III.  Froissart's  story  has  it  that 
Jeanne  herself  went  upon  this  mission  and  tells 
how  she  arrived  at  the  Court  at  the  moment  when 
the  King  was  giving  a  fete  to  his  favourite,  the 
Countess  of  Salisbury.  Such  is  the  authority  which 
true  courage  lends.  When  Jeanne  de  Montfort 
was  announced  the  knights  strove  for  the  privilege 
of  being  first  to  salute  her.  The  Countess  of  Salis- 
bury kissed  the  hand  that  had  learned  to  carry  a 
sword,  and  at  once,  under  the  inspiration  of  the 
scene,  Edward  promised  to  Jeanne  de  Montfort  the 
aid  of  forty-six  ships. 


HENNEBONT  153 

In  this  intelligent  Duchess  of  Brittany,  we  find 
our  heroine  as  redoubtable  under  the  helmet  as 
she  had  been  charming  under  the  "hennin"  (the 
tall,  conical  head-dress  of  the  period)  managing 
the  sword  as  she  had  managed  the  distaff. 

We  see  her  entrenched  behind  her  fortifications 
on  the  heights  of  Hennebont,  and  the  town  be- 
sieged by  Charles  of  Blois  and  his  army.  From  a 
loophole  of  the  western  tower  she  watches  for  the 
arrival  of  the  English  ships,  meanwhile  instruct- 
ing her  soldiers  and  resisting  the  siege.  Then  at 
the  last  moment  the  fleet  arrives — the  ships  of 
King  Edward  with  six  thousand  archers.  Frois- 
sart  tells  us  (precious  old  gossip  that  he  is!)  how 
Jeanne  kissed  each  brave  captain  on  both  cheeks 
and  praised  him  in  turn. 

We  see  her  surprise  the  camp  of  the  enemy, 
through  stratagem — rescuing  her  soldiers  held  as 
prisoners.  Finally  Charles  of  Blois  is  obliged  to 
abandon  the  siege  of  Hennebont — and  all  because 
of  a  woman !  The  incredible  audacity  of  our  hero- 
ine in  going  in  person  to  set  fire  to  the  enemy's 
camp  earned  for  her  the  title :  "Jeanne~la"Flamme" 
and  the  episode  furnished  material  for  a  popular 
song  bearing  that  title,  the  translation  of  which 
from  the  Keltic  into  French  we  owe  to  M.  Ville- 
marque.  Add  to  this  our  own  into  English  and 
one  realizes  how  much  the  flavor  of  the  song  has 
been  sacrificed.  The  story  is  given  in  four  parts 
or  scenes. 


154  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Scene  I 

"What  is  this  which  I  behold,  clinging  to  the 
heights  of  Hennebont?  Is  it  a  flock  of  black  sheep 
which  I  see  in  the  distance? — It  is  not  a  flock  of 
black  sheep.  It  is  an  army — a  French  army  on  the 
march — marching  to  lay  siege  to  the  town  of  Hen- 
nebont." 

Scene  II 

When  the  Countess  Jeanne  made  the  tour  of  the 
town  at  the  head  of  her  soldiers  all  the  bells  of 
Hennebont  were  set-ringing.  When  she  rode  upon 
her  white  steed  with  her  child  upon  her  knee,  all 
the  people  of  Hennebont  shouted  with  joy:  "May 
God  protect  mother  and  son  and  may  He  put  to 
route  the  French."  As  the  procession  came  to  an 
end  they  heard  the  French  army  shouting:  "And 
now  we  come.  We  come  to  capture  every  living 
soul  of  the  town  of  Hennebont.  We  come  to  cap- 
ture the  hind  and  her  fawn.  We  have  chains  of 
gold  wherewith  to  bind  them  one  to  the  other." 

Then  answered  Jeanne  la-Flamme  from  the  top 
of  her  tower:  "It  is  not  the  hind  who  will  be  cap- 
tured. As  to  the  wicked  wolf,  that  I  will  not  say. 
If  to-night  the  wolf  is  cold,  it  is  I  who  will  warm 
his  den."  And  having  thus  spoken,  she  descended, 
furious.  And  she  put  on  a  corset  of  steel.  And  she 
coiffed  herself  in  a  black  helmet.    And  she  armed 


HENNEBONT  155 

herself  with  a  sharp-edged  sword.  And,  carrying 
in  her  hand  a  flaming  torch,  she  set  out  from  one  of 
the  gates  of  the  town. 

Scene  III 

Now  the  French  were  singing  gaily  as  they  were 
seated  at  table.  Gathered  together  in  their  closed 
tents,  the  French  were  singing  gaily  in  the  night. 
When  in  the  distance  might  have  been  heard  a 
strange  voice — a  strange  voice  singing  in  solemn 
tones :  "More  than  one  now  eating  white  bread  will 
soon  be  biting  the  cold  black  earth.  More  than 
one  who  now  boasts  shall  soon  be  reduced  to 
ashes." 

Many  were  lying — overcome  with  much  drink- 
ing— their  heads  upon  the  tables,  when  the  alarm 
was  sounded:  "Fire!  Fire!  It  is  Jeanne-la- 
Flamme!  forsooth,  the  most  daring  woman  in  all 
France!" 

Jeanne-la-Flamme  had  set  blazing  the  four  cor- 
ners of  the  French  camp,  and  the  wind  spread  the 
flames  and  illumined  the  black  night,  and  the  tents 
were  burned  and  the  French  consumed — three 
thousand  reduced  to  ashes  and  only  a  hundred  es- 
caped. 

Scene  IV 

Now  Jeanne-la-Flamme,  next  morning,  stood 
smiling  at  the  top  of  her  tower.  Looking  down 
upon  the  plain  and  seeing  the  French  camp  de- 


156  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

stroyed  and  the  smoke  still  rising  from  the 
tents  reduced  to  embers — said  Jeanne-la-Flamme: 
"Mon  Dieu!  What  a  splendid  tillage!  Mon 
Dieu!  What  a  splendid  tillage!  For  every  grain 
of  barley  we  shall  have  ten.  The  old  Romans  said 
truly:  "There  is  nothing  so  good  as  the  bones  of 
Gauls — nothing  so  good  as  the  bones  of  Gauls — 
ground  fine — for  making  the  barley  grow." 

The  hatred  of  the  French  name  flashes  out  hor- 
ribly in  this  song  and  suggests  the  wild  beast — 
long-hunted,  turning  at  last  upon  his  destroyers. 
This  was  indeed  the  position  of  Brittany  in  respect 
to  France. 

Froissart,  in  describing  the  exploits  of  Jeanne  de 
Montfort,  accentuates  no  act  of  hers  so  rudely  as 
does  this  ancient  song.  But  this  War  of  the  Suc- 
cession was  on  both  sides  remarkable  for  its 
cruelty.  As  always  in  the  Middle  Age,  side  by 
side  existed  the  sentiment  of  chivalry,  the  fervor  of 
Christianity  and  the  ferocity  of  "barbaric  times,  and 
in  judging  of  Jeanne  de  Montfort  we  must  place 
her  in  her  times. 

But  we  must  descend  from  our  heights  of  Henne- 
bont  and  its  bellicose  souvenirs  and  rearrange  our 
dispositions  entirely.  For  our  next  journey  leads 
us  on  a  pious  pilgrimage  to  St.  Anne  d'Auray.  Pil- 
grimages of  great  importance  occur  here  twice  a 
year — one  in  the  week  following  Whitsunday,  the 
other  on  St.  Anne's  Day,  the  twenty-sixth  of  July. 


HENNEBONT  157* 

While  the  Pardon  of  St.  Yves  at  Treguier  honours 
the  national  Saint — the  Church  Calendar  that  of 
St.  Anne,  which  is  more  thronged  by  devotees  of 
the  Mother  of  the  Virgin  and  Auray  being  a  cen- 
tral point,  the  pilgrims  flock  from  all  quarters,  and 
the  traveller  has  the  valuable  opportunity  of  see- 
ing a  greater  variety  of  costumes  than  at  any  other 
gathering. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

CARNAC   AND   LEGENDS    OF   THE   DRUIDS 

We  NEXT  come  to  Carnac — the  cradle  of  Gallic 
Druidism.  Our  first  impression  was  received 
under  a  windy  night  sky,  the  moon  now  and  then 
lifting  the  somber  shadows  of  the  plain.  Grey 
stones  of  various  heights  and  dimensions  stand 
mute  and  solemn.  Some  of  them  in  long  rows — 
here  and  there  a  menhir  towers  above  the  others. 
The  remains  of  a  cromlech — the  sacred  circle  out- 
lined at  one  end  of  the  plain.  We  wander  among 
these  queer  grey  stones  and  recall  the  legends  as- 
sociated with  them.  Especially  on  such  a  night, 
under  this  varying  sky,  does  fancy  create  weird 
pictures  in  the  midst  of  the  uncertain  shadows. 
We  conjure  forms  of  druidic  priestesses  as  pic- 
tured in  the  legends — their  soft  white  woollen 
robes  floating  in  the  night  wind,  their  bracelets  and 
girdles  of  gold  gleaming  in  the  moonlight,  the 
wreath  of  mystic  verveine  on  their  heads — armed 
with  torches — dancing  their  swinging,  swaying 
dance.    Jubanivelle  of  the  Sorbonne,  the  acknowl- 

158 


CARNAC  AND  LEGENDS  OF  THE  DRUIDS     159 

edged  authority,  tells  us  that  the  Stones  of  Carnac 
— although  employed  by  the  druids  in  practicing 
their  ceremonies,  were  placed  where  they  now 
stand  thousands  of  years  before  the  druids  came 
into  Gaul.  Their  origin  remains  a  mystery. 
These  stones  tell  no  tales.  There  are  no  inscrip- 
tions— no  hieroglyphics  to  decipher.  Even  the 
"grey  cult,"  as  druidism  has  been  named,  is  nearly 
obliterated  by  the  three  thousand  years  that  have 
swept  over  it,  and  fancy  must  now  serve  as  ma- 
gician to  conjure  pictures  of  its  strange  and  unex- 
plained past.  A  few  stanzas  of  their  chief  bard 
Taliesin, — whose  mystical  poems  are  believed  by 
some  to  be  derived  from  the  sources  of  druidism 
— and  some  of  the  laws  and  customs  and  beliefs  of 
this  strange  people,  exist  to-day.  Some  of  the  laws 
which  have  been  preserved  are  interesting.  Caesar 
wrote:  "It  is  a  law  of  the  druids  that  no  man  shall 
be  richer  than  his  neighbour."  Other  laws  were : 
"Do  not  discuss  religion  among  yourselves."  "The 
druid  shall  be  pure  and  chaste."  "Be  mute  in 
presence  of  a  stranger."  "Women  may  be  judges 
and  arbiters."  "Foreign  merchants  are  forbidden 
to  import  luxuries  among  us."  "Usury  is  a  theft 
and  you  owe  the  usurer  nothing."  "Marry  your 
wife  without  a  dowry."  "No  children  shall  be 
brought  up  in  cities.  The  child  shall  be  brought 
up  in  the  villages,  otherwise  the  Republic  has  no 
use  for  him."  "A  man  at  the  age  of  twenty-five 
having  too  large  a  waist-line  shall  be  put  to  death 


160  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

for  gluttony."  Some  of  these  laws  certainly  sug- 
gest the  ideas  of  Emersonian  "plain  living  and 
high  thinking"  among  these  men  of  oak.  It  is  said 
that  with  the  druids  there  were  seven  senses,  appe- 
tite and  aversion  being  admitted  to  the  number — 
hence  perhaps  the  phrase:  "frightened  out  of  his 
seven  senses." 

Through  the  few  fragments  that  have  survived 
savants  have  sought  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  cult 
practiced  among  these  stones,  but  Carnac  keeps 
the  secret  of  her  grandeur — lugubrious  and  silent. 
Robert  Browning,  in  the  sixteenth  stanza  of  the 
"Two  Poets  of  Croisic,"  writes — alluding  to  the 
desire  to  know  the  secret  of  these  stones:  "Each 
pale  man  importunes — vainly,  the  mumbling  to 
speak  plain  once  more." 

On  the  sixteenth  of  September — sometimes  on 
the  fifteenth,  if  the  day  chance  to  be  a  Sunday,  the 
Pardon  of  St  Comely  occurs  at  Carnac.  What  a 
great  Saint  is  Comely!  For  he  not  only  saved 
Carnac  by  turning  the  invading  Roman  soldiers  to 
stone — do  we  not  see  these  thousands  of  upright 
stones  still  standing  as  witnesses  to  the  mir- 
acle?— But  St.  Comely  is  also  the  guardian  of 
horned  cattle.  After  High  Mass  of  the  day  of  the 
fete — the  cattle,  decked  with  ribbons  and  flowers, 
are  brought  to  the  door  of  the  church — there  the 
clergy  in  gorgeous  vestments,  the  altar  boys  swing- 
ing the  burning  censers,  bless  the  cattle  and  sprin- 
kle them  with  holy  water.     The  cattle  are  then 


CARNAC  AND  LEGENDS  OF  THE  DRUIDS     161 

driven  to  the  market  and  sold  at  auction.  The 
owners  often  bid  them  in  themselves.  The  pres- 
ence of  one  of  these  cattle  preserves  an  entire  herd 
from  disease.  A  strange  custom — named  the  noc- 
turnal cult. 

Notwithstanding  endless  sanctiflcations  the 
ancient  beliefs  connected  with  the  stones  persist, 
but  under  new  names.  The  menhirs,  dolmens 
and  rocking  stones  scattered  through  Brittany  are 
sought  to-day  for  various  purposes. 

To  cite  several  instances.  On  the  Island  of  Sein 
persons  with  fever  send  to  have  placed  at  the  foot 
of  the  menhir  nine  pebbles  which  must  be  brought 
in  the  pocket  handkerchief  of  the  sick  person. 
Whoever  takes  away  these  pebbles  takes  the  fever, 
thus  ridding  the  patient  of  his  malady. 

At  Locmariaquer,  near  Carnac,  a  young  girl 
wishing  to  marry  within  the  year  climbs  to  the  top 
of  the  highest  menhir  on  the  night  of  the  first  of 
May,  gathers  up  her  skirts  and  slides  down  to  the 
ground.  In  Ille-et-Vilaine  a  similar  practice  ex- 
ists— married  people  visit  these  stones  to  cure 
sterility.  At  Plouet  (C6tes-du-Nord)  there  is  a 
famous  stone  of  this  class.  Often  bits  of  ribbon 
or  woollen  stuff  are  placed  on  the  stone  as  offer- 
ings— newly  married  couples  seek  the  menhir  of 
Plouarzel,  the  largest  in  Finistere.  Through  the 
rites  practised  there  the  husband  believes  he  will 
be  the  father  of  boys  rather  than  girls. 

If  engaged  couples  utter  their  vows  across  dol- 


162  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

mens,  which  have  certain  ruts  on  their  surface, 
and  gather  the  herbs  growing  beneath  the  stones, 
the  marriage  will  be  a  happy  one.  Most  of  the 
rites  practised  at  druidistic  stones  have  to  do  with 
love  and  fecundity,  and  are  performed  clandes- 
tinely. The  fact  that  these  stones  have  acquired  a 
degree  of  polish  at  certain  places  attest  to  the  fre- 
quency of  these  rites. 

Near  the  Bourg  of  Plouaret  is  a  dolmen  sur- 
mounted by  a  small  chapel  named  "The  Chapel 
of  the  Seven  Saints."  An  ancient  popular  guerz 
of  the  country  celebrated  there  the  Seven  Sleepers 
of  Ephesus.  The  Church  has  appropriated  the 
title  of  the  Chapel  to  the  Seven  Saints,  either  the 
seven  who  came  over  from  Ireland  or  to  a  group 
of  seven  early  Breton  Saints. 

At  the  grotto  of  Abelard  and  Heloi'se  young  girls 
break  a  bit  from  one  of  the  stones  in  order  to  be 
married  within  the  year. 

Of  the  eighty  Rocking  Stones  found  in  France, 
fifteen  are  in  the  C6tes-du-Nord,  and  there  are  a 
number  in  Morbihan  and  Finistere. 

Until  1880  these  stones  were  held  to  be  the  work 
of  man.  To-day  it  is  believed  that  they  belong  to 
geology  by  their  origin  and  to  archaeology  by  their 
use.  Legends  attribute  the  placing  of  these  stones 
to  fairies,  monk-lore  gives  the  credit  to  the  Virgin 
and  to  Satan.  These  stones  often  serve  as  ordeals. 
Jealous  husbands  seek  that  near  Concarneau  in  or- 
der to  solve  their  doubts.    There  are  traditions  of 


CARNAC  AND  LEGENDS  OF  THE  DRUIDS     163 

two  fetes  formerly  celebrated  at  rocking  stones, 
one  on  the  first  of  May,  the  other  at  harvest  time. 

Many  of  the  large  boulders  along  the  coast  are 
called  Gargantua's  pebbles,  the  giant  having  been 
annoyed  by  these  stones  getting  into  his  shoes,  and 
casting  them  aside  here  and  there. 

Formerly  stones  in  Brittany  increased  in  size 
miraculously,  but  they  have  been  exorcised,  since 
when  they  no  longer  gain  in  proportion.  As  in 
other  countries,  certain  rocks  in  Brittany  sing;  one 
on  a  high  point  named  Men-Varia  is  often  heard 
singing  at  sunrise.*  I  have  visited  the  rock  of 
Ploumanach  which  sings  at  sunset.  The  people 
say  it  is  the  sweet  voice  of  Mary,  protector  of  the 
mariner,  praying  for  her  Bretons. 

In  the  river  at  Scaer  the  Bretons  search  for  the 
stones  of  the  Cross.  On  every  one  the  sacred  sym- 
bol is  found  in  relief.  That  the  geologists  call 
them  Staurotites  has  not  yet  lessened  their  real 
value.  Every  household  desiring  to  avoid  colic, 
sorcery  and  mad  dogs,  possess  one  or  more  of  these 
stones,  which  also  serve  as  amulets  when  travelling. 

From  Carnac  to  Locmariaquer  we  travel  by  pri- 
vate conveyance.  Locmariaquer  possesses  a  won- 
derful dolmen  and  interesting  Roman  remains,  and 
not  far  off  is  the  mound  on  which  is  a  curious  crom- 


*It  is  said  that  treasures  are  often  found  under  the  singing 
rocks,  but  we  are  told  that  they  are  Satanic  in  origin  and  disaster 
is  sure  to  overtake  him  who  ventures  to  dig  to  find  these  treasures. 
At  Trogaredic,  near  Morlaix,  there  is  gold  in  a  certain  place  in 
the  earth,  but  he  who  searches  for  it  will  fare  ill  in  this  world  and 
the  next 


164  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

lech.    Alexander  Dumas  places  the  tragic  death 
of  his  Porthos  in  the  grotto  of  Locmariaquer. 

At  the  little  inn  one  should  not  fail  to  order  oys- 
ters, the  specialty  of  the  place.  These  our  hostess 
allowed  us  to  enjoy,  sitting  in  the  kitchen  before 
the  broad  fireplace,  thus  being  served  directly  from 
the  coals  where  the  broiling  goes  on  at  the  hands 
of  our  hostess. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

LEGENDS 

FOUNTAINS  share  the  popularity  of  stones  in 
the  legends.  There  is  a  famous  one  at  Yffiniac  near 
St.  Brieuc,  called  the  "Fountain  of  the  Seven 
Saints."  This  is  efficacious  in  cases  of  eczema. 
That  of  St.  Malo  in  Brehand  cures  boils.  The 
water  of  the  fountain  of  St.  Gueten  is  a  specific 
for  colic,  and  St.  Blanche  for  skin  eruptions  (but 
the  shirt  must  be  dipped  in  the  fountain  and  dried 
in  the  shade  and  prayers  said  during  the  drying, 
also  an  offering  must  not  be  omitted).  St.  Blaise 
is  a  specialist  for  toothache,  Notre  Dame  de  la 
Clarte  for  diseases  of  the  eye  and  Notre  Dame  de 
Bon  Repos  for  insomnia.  The  Virgin  at  Quintin 
cures  sterility  and  idiots  and  epileptics  are  helped 
at  the  fountain  of  the  St.  Esprit  at  Pledeliac.  For 
earache  the  Breton  seeks  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette. 
St.  Aubert  cures  hydrophobia  and  St.  Antoine  aids 
in  finding  lost  objects. 

Besides  the  Saints  and  their  fountains  the  Breton 
has  three  curative  resources — the  Midwife,  the 
Bonesetter  and  the  Sorcerer. 

165 


166  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

The  midwife  is  actively  engaged,  there  being — 
according  to  statistics — no  Province  in  France  in 
which  so  many  large  families  are  found. 

The  bonesetter  appears  to  have  a  method  all  his 
own,  and  his  successes  as  well  as  his  failures  are 
evident.  At  Ploumanach  the  usual  fee  for  a  sim- 
ple fracture  is  one  franc — for  a  double  fracture 
two,  and  a  complicated  case  is  held  to  be  worth 
the  three  francs  demanded. 

When  all  other  resources  fail,  there  is  the  Sor- 
cerer, who  is  feared,  respected,  sought  or  avoided, 
according  to  circumstances.  Many  a  Breton  cure 
possesses  a  copy  of  the  "Agrippa."  But  it  is  for- 
bidden his  parishioners  to  own  such  an  aid  to 
knowledge.  However,  every  Sorcerer  in  the  Prov- 
ince has  a  copy.  I  have  seen  one,  owned  by  M. 
Anatole  Le  Braz,  given  him  by  an  old  peasant. 
The  book  is  black  from  its  century  of  hiding  in- 
side his  grandfather's  chimney,  lest  the  cure  should 
know  of  its  existence.  The  formulas  contained  in 
this  book  and  the  herbs  he  gathers,  as  did  the 
druids,  with  proper  observation  of  the  planetary 
movements,  are  great  aids  to  the  Sorcerer.  Some 
of  the  remedies  used  by  them,  in  the  mountains 
of  Arez,  have  been,  it  is  said,  transmitted  orally 
from  father  to  son,  and  are  held  to  be  traditional 
means  of  cure  employed  by  the  orates.  There  is 
excellent  sense  in  this  recipe:  "To  restore  a 
fatigued  horse  shut  him  in  the  stable  three  days 
and  give  six  sous  to  the  Cure." 


LEGENDS  167 

To  ease  the  sufferings  of  one  possessed  by  the 
Loup  Garou,  repeat  four  times  the  syllable  "at," 
twice  the  syllable  "non"  and  four  times  "on  all 
en  an." 

In  Brittany  Sage  and  Sorcerer  are  often 
synonymous.  People  smile  at  the  Breton  Sorcer- 
ers, but  in  Paris  we  find  them  on  the  Rue  Paradis, 
and  in  London  in  Bond  Street. 

With  the  druids  water  and  fire  figure  largely,  as 
forces  in  the  Substance  of  the  Universe.  As  his 
ancestors  lighted  fires  on  the  cairns  at  the  Solstice, 
so  the  Bretons  light  bonfires  on  the  mountains  on 
the  Eve  of  St.  John's  Day.  And  the  priest  now 
blesses  and  often  lights  the  pile.  Young  people 
dance  around  these  fires  and  leap  across  the  embers 
for  good  luck,  and  a  brand  preserved  from  the  fire 
of  St.  Jean  brings  a  blessing  to  the  house  through 
the  year.  A  most  delightful  description  of  this 
midsummer-night  fete  is  given  in  the  book:  "Au 
Pays  des  Pardons."  In  fact  one  finds  in  this  a 
perfect  guide  and  inspiration  as  well,  in  journey- 
ing in  this  Country  of  Pilgrimages. 

Luzel  publishes  over  twenty  Sun  legends.  A 
few  years  ago  the  Patron  or  chief  person  of  the 
Fete  of  the  Solstice  wore  a  rosette  of  green,  blue 
and  white  ribbon,  these  colours,  curiously,  are  those 
of  the  Welsh  bards,  druids  and  ovates.  In  some 
localities  he  was  dressed  entirely  in  these  colors. 
They  danced  around  the  dolmen.  Persons  under 
sixteen  years  of  age  were  not  admitted  to  this  fete, 


168  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

and  once  married  their  right  to  participate  ended. 
The  Patron  of  the  preceding  fete  lost  his  position 
when  another  succeeded  in  seizing  from  him  the 
tri-colored  rosette,  when  he  was  proclaimed  chief 
or  Patron  of  the  fete.  The  observance  of  the  Fete 
of  the  Solstice  lingers  in  the  mountains,  where  the 
Keltic  cpirit  remains  comparatively  intact.  The 
center  of  the  Cult  is  near  Plougasnou  in  Finistere, 
where  the  touching  of  the  finger  of  St.  John,  treas- 
ured in  the  sacristy,  joined  to  the  use  of  the  water 
of  the  fountain,  cures  the  worst  cases  of  disease  of 
the  eye.  This  fete  has  become  spoiled  to  a  degree, 
owing  to  its  popularity,  and  I  grieve  to  say  that  at 
the  moment  of  the  lighting  of  the  bonfires,  volleys 
of  musketry  accompany  the  ceremony. 

As  for  trees  and  plants,  the  oak  holds  its  usual 
place  in  Breton  traditions.  A  branch  of  the  birch- 
tree  is  a  signal  of  triumph,  and  the  hazel-nut  tree 
symbolizes  defeat.  The  curious  object — the  mail 
benniguet — was  made  of  the  heart  of  the  oak. 

The  mistletoe  figures  in  many  of  the  legends. 
A  panacea  with  the  druids,  it  possesses  (provided  it 
grows  upon  the  oak)  great  healing  powers.  An 
expatriated  Breton  finds  the  gul  de  chene  "war- 
ranted to  cure  nervous  complaints,"  at  a  large 
apothecary  shop  near  the  Hotel  de  Ville  in  Paris, 
at  six  francs  the  pound ;  a  branch  of  mistletoe  car- 
ried on  a  railway  train  wards  off  accident. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
SAINTS  AND  FAIRIES 

In  SPEAKING  of  the  fountains  we  have  mentioned 
a  few  names  of  the  Patron  Saints,  not  many  of  these 
are  found  in  the  Calendar  of  Rome.  Brittany 
counts  her  Saints  by  hundreds,  although  those 
of  Rome  are  likewise  honoured — as  if  there 
couldn't  be  too  many.  Nor  does  Albert  the  Monk 
of  Morlaix  mention  the  half  in  his  "Lives  of  the 
Saints  of  Brittany." 

M.  Anatole  Le  Braz  tells  of  a  Saint — very  popu- 
lar— called  in  Breton  "a  zantic  coz" — "the  little 
old  Saint" — an  old  block  of  wood  against  which 
one  has  only  to  rub  his  head  in  order  to  obtain  all 
that  he  desires.  But  there  are  obstacles,  as  the 
block  is  concealed  in  a  rock  which  opens  once  in 
every  eleven  hundred  years,  between  eleven  o'clock 
and  midnight! 

The  name  of  St.  Tu-pe-du  does  not  figure  in 
the  Monk's  book,  but  he  is  important  among  the 
Breton  Saints.  Another  legend  having  one  point 
in  common  with  that  of  St.  Tu-pe-du,  very  Keltic 

169 


170  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

and  very  lugubrious,  is  that  of  the  Mael  benniguet 
of  Manne-Guen.  "The  Sacred  Club  of  the  White 
Mountain."  On  the  side  of  the  Mountain  in  the 
country  near  Poulder,  is  a  chapel  of  the  Virgin 
named  Notre  Dame  de  Mane-Guen.  People  say 
that  formerly,  old  men  tired  of  living  went  to  the 
top  of  the  mountain,  and  one  of  the  druids  who 
lived  there  disembarrassed  him  by  striking  his  head 
with  the  mael  benniguet. 

The  Sacred  Club  of  the  druids,  made  of  the 
heart  of  oak,  later  on  took  the  form  of  a  mallet  of 
wood,  afterwards  of  iron,  lastly  of  a  granite  ball, 
half  a  yard  in  circumference. 

In  certain  chapels  the  mael  benniguet  is  pre- 
served, usually  concealed  in  an  aperture  of  the 
wall  of  the  sacristy.  In  case  an  aged  person  was 
suffering  a  slow  and  painful  death,  the  sacristan 
entrusted  this  granite  ball  to  some  venerable  friend 
of  the  dying — sometimes  the  parish  priest  has  per- 
formed the  office.  It  was  placed  on  the  head  of 
the  sufferer,  a  sacred  formula  was  uttered  and 
death  came  swiftly  and  painlessly.  Thus  Chris- 
tianity has  sanctified  the  mael  benniguet  of  druidic 
legend  and  preserved  its  benignant  character,  and 
the  Mountain  Mane-Guen  is  placed  under  the  pro- 
tection of  Notre  Dame. 

This  mountain  is  near  Guidel  at  the  mouth  of  the 
LaTta.  It  still  preserves  its  ancient  tradition  (and 
for  centuries  the  chapel  of  Mane-Guen  treasured 
a  mael-benniguet)  and  is  still  a  place  of  pilgrim* 


SAINTS  AND  FAIRIES  171 

age,  but — note  the  contrast! — to-day,  young  girls 
desirous  of  becoming  more  beautiful  and  attractive 
seek  there  the  intercession  of  Our  Lady  of  Mane- 
Guen! 

As  we  before  mentioned,  the  peasants  have  al- 
ways loved  their  fairies,  and  did  not  easily  believe 
them  to  be  Pagan.  Not  that  they  were  held  to  be 
quite  Christian,  as  they  could  not  be  baptized.  But 
they  can  enter  a  church,  act  as  godmother,  and  as- 
sist at  marriages.  They  are  neither  quite  Christian 
nor  quite  Pagan,  but  rather  spirits  of  angels  con- 
demned to  do  penance  on  earth  after  which  they 
will  enter  Paradise.  Chapels  have  been  built  by 
fairies  in  a  single  night.  Enormous  crosses  and 
stones  have  been  transported  and  placed  by  them 
— always  in  the  night.  Also  the  fairies  sometimes 
say  a  mass.  The  dolmen  is  called  the  "Church  of 
the  Fairies." 

Certain  Norman  historians  indicate  Brittany  as 
the  chief  sojourn  of  the  fairy.  The  soil  has  always 
been  congenial  to  their  existence.  In  the  moun- 
tains of  Arez  the  forests  are  filled  with  these  good 
little  folk.  The  bad  fairy  dwells  in  the  grotto  of 
the  coast,  which  forms  four-fifths  of  the  boundary 
of  our  Province.  There  Morgan-la-Fee  still  prac- 
tises her  enchantments.  The  inhabitants  of  Tre- 
guier  often  see  this  Breton  siren,  and  Mary  Mor- 
gan is  well  known  on  the  shore  of  Finistere. 
These  successors  of  ancient  sea  divinities  figure  in 
endless  songs,  and  old  tales.     M.  Sibellot  has  col- 


172  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

lected  twenty  stones  of  these  fairies  of  the  grotto. 

In  the  mountains  of  Arez  it  is  wise  to  avoid  cer- 
tain crossings  of  roadways,  and  certain  fountains 
in  forests,  and  especially  certain  dolmens  where 
fairies  dance  their  rounds.  The  people  tell  you 
that  they  have  themselves  heard  that  famous  un- 
canny rondo — "Lundi,  Mardi,  Mercredi,"  and  the 
others  respond :  "et  Jeudi  et  Vendredi."  If  the 
passer-by  venture  to  add:  "et  Samedil'  he  runs  a 
fearful  risk.  A  rag-gatherer  passing  near  a  dol- 
men one  cold  night  in  December,  and  hearing  this 
singing  couldn't  resist  adding  the  fatal  word.  He 
was  immediately  surrounded  by  these  sprites  of  the 
night,  was  hurled  into  the  clouds  and  landed  in 
the  moon,  where  he  figures  as  the  "Man"  of  that 
orb,  and  there  he  must  remain  until  the  spell  is 
broken,  i.e. — until  another  victim,  led  into  the  same 
imprudence  shall  replace  him. 

I  found  a  pretty  local  legend  at  Gourin  in  the 
Arez  mountains,  so  buried  was  it  in  the  hearts  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  parish  that  it  had  escaped 
even  the  folk-lorists. 

During  a  visit  at  the  chateau  of  Gourin  I  no- 
ticed in  the  little  cemetery  of  the  ancient  church  a 
flat  tombstone,  quite  new  in  appearance,  resting  on 
two  pediments  which  were  apparently  very,  very 
old.  They  explained  that  the  former  slab  had  be- 
come so  worn  by  the  feet  of  the  little  children 
whose  mothers  had  brought  them  to  the  tomb,  that 
the  parish  had  been  forced  to  replace  it  with  the 


SAINTS  AND  FAIRIES  173 

new  slab.  My  look  of  inquiry  brought  the  full 
explanation.  "Hundreds  of  years  ago  a  certain 
Cure  of  the  parish  was  greatly  beloved  by  his  peo- 
ple, and  above  all  by  the  children,  as  he  adored 
the  little  folk  of  his  parish.  Now  this  good  priest 
had  a  weakness.  When  once  he  had  fallen  asleep, 
after  his  day  of  hard  work,  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  he  could  rouse  himself.  Once  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  some  one  knocked  at  his  door,  asking 
him  to  hasten  to  baptize  a  newly  born  infant  about 
to  die.  The  Cure  promised  to  come  at  once — but 
alas!  he  failed  to  rouse  himself — relaxed  into  sleep. 
The  child  died.  His  grief  over  the  loss  of  a  soul 
through  his  neglect  was  too  much  to  be  borne.  He 
thought  himself  unworthy  of  his  sacred  office — and 
one  night  he  left  his  parish — walked  to  the  nearest 
seaport  and  embarked  for  Ireland.  Just  be- 
fore landing  he  found  that  in  his  haste  he  had 
brought  with  him  the  key  of  the  Sacristy.  This  he 
threw  into  the  sea,  thus  severing  the  last  link 
which  bound  him  to  his  parish.  He  worked  faith- 
fully among  the  poor  and  suffering,  devoting  him- 
self especially  to  little  children,  and  came  to  be 
looked  upon  in  the  country  of  his  adoption  as  little 
less  than  a  saint.  After  many  years,  as  he  was  sup- 
ping one  day  at  a  little  inn  on  the  seacoast,  inside 
the  fish  which  was  served  to  him  he  found  the  key 
of  the  Sacristy.  He  interpreted  the  miracle  thus: 
this  his  period  of  penance  was  finished,  and  he  was 
to  return  to  his  parish.    Arriving  there,  his  people 


174  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

were  overjoyed  at  sight  of  their  beloved  Cure, 
whose  absence  they  had  never  ceased  to  mourn — 
and  he  lived  to  a  very  old  age,  and  at  his  death  was 
buried  in  the  parish  cemetery.  He  had  become 
such  a  saint  that  miracles  were  wrought  at  his 
tomb.  If  an  infant  was  unable  from  weakness  to 
walk  at  the  usual  time,  the  mother  brought  it  to 
this  tomb  and,  marching  the  little  feet  back  and 
forth  on  the  slab  of  the  stone,  the  child's  strength 
was  secured.  Thus  the  stone  became  worn  and 
the  grooves  grew  so  deep  that  a  new  one  was  made 
to  replace  it.  I  give  this  as  a  typical  local  legend 
— believed  in  absolutely  by  the  people.  And  at 
the  same  time  not  far  from  being  historically  true. 
For  mostly  legends  are  history — history  veiled  by 
the  myth,  it  is  true — but  still  history. 

There  are  many  Legends  of  Love — beauties  per- 
secuted, etc. 

Luzel  associates  this  class  with  the  Psyche  myth 
and  thus  analyzes  it:  "Generally  a  condition  at 
first  obscure  or  unhappy  of  the  heroine  followed 
by  a  better  condition  as  the  result  of  some  act  of 
devotion,  filial  or  conjugal — a  fall  or  misfortune 
follows,  due  often  to  curiosity — expiatory  tests,  re- 
demption and  definite  reunion  of  hero  and  hero- 
ine." Luzel  cites  six  examples.  Other  legends  of 
love  are  found  in  which  several  but  not  all  the  con- 
ditions named  by  Luzel  occur. 

There  are  two  heroines  of  legends  of  this  class, 
named  Azenor — "Azenor  la  Pale,"  sacrificed  by  a 


SAINTS  AND  FAIRIES  175 

marriage  forced  upon  her  from  motives  of  ambi- 
tion on  the  part  of  her  parents.  And  "Queen  Aze- 
nor  de  la  Tour  d'Armor."  This  legend  dates  from 
the  sixth  century.  Azenor,  daughter  of  the  King 
of  Leon,  is  married  by  the  Bishop  of  Ys  to  a  prince 
of  a  neighbouring  country.  That  the  marriage 
seemed  suitable  in  one  respect  at  least,  may  be  in- 
ferred from  the  King's  words  in  giving  his  consent : 
"He  is  tall  and  handsome  they  say,  and  handsome 
and  tall  is  my  daughter."  She  goes  with  her  hus- 
band to  his  castle.  Before  a  year  has  passed,  the 
mother-in-law,  the  villain  of  the  play — jealous  of 
the  beauty  and  influence  of  the  young  wife,  ac- 
cuses her  falsely  to  her  husband,  who  promptly 
ordered  her  to  be  burned.  "Queen  Azenor  that 
day  was  led  to  the  funeral  pile,  as  innocent  as  a 
lamb,  in  white  robes,  her  feet  bare,  her  fair  hair 
flowing  over  her  shoulders.  And  everybody  sob- 
bing, great  and  small,  as  she  passed  by.  And 
everybody  saying:  'It  is  a  crime,  it  is  a  two-fold 
crime  to  burn  a  woman  about  to  give  birth  to  a 
child.'  "  But  a  miracle  occurs.  The  fire  refuses 
to  burn.  "Blow,  joyous  firemen,  blow,  that  the  fire 
may  burn  red  and  strong.  Let  us  blow  our  best 
that  the  fire  may  burn  red  and  strong.  'Twas  in 
vain  they  blew.  They  blew  themselves  breathless 
in  vain.  The  fire  would  not  kindle  beneath  her." 
Then  she  is  ordered  to  be  drowned  and  is  again 
preserved  through  a  miracle.  Scene  fifth  begins 
thus:  "What  hast  thou  seen  on  the  sea,  O  Sailor? 


176  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

— A  boat  without  oars  or  sail.  And  at  the  stern, 
for  pilot,  an  angel.  An  angel  standing  with  wings 
outspread. — And  what  hast  thou  seen  on  the  Sea, 
O  Sailor? — I  saw,  my  lord,  far  out  at  sea,  a  boat, 
and  in  this  boat  a  woman  with  her  child,  her  new- 
born child  hanging  on  her  white  breast,  like  a  dove 
on  the  edge  of  a  sea  shell.  She  sang  to  him  in  a 
voice  so  sweet:  'Sleep,  sleep,  my  baby,  sleep. 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  poor  little  one,'  "  etc.  Of  course, 
the  plot  is  unearthed  as  the  mother-in-law  dies, 
confessing  her  crime,  and  the  usual  serpents,  so  oft- 
recurring  in  Breton  tales,  crawl  from  her  lying 
lips,  and  hissing,  strangle  her.  The  husband  seeks 
Azenor  over  land  and  sea  and  after  seven  years 
finds  her  in  Great  Britain. 

In  all  the  instances  named,  the  persecuted  hero- 
ine is  beautiful,  pale,  has  golden  hair,  is  good,  pa- 
tient, and,  in  every  instance,  forgives  her  enemies. 

No  sentiment  is  so  strong  with  the  Breton  as 
their  affection  and  veneration  for  the  dead.  With 
that  tenacity  of  will  and  memory  peculiar  to  the 
Kelt,  the  Breton  holds  to  the  old  traditions.  He 
treasures  the  legends  which  serve  to  keep  alive  this 
cult  for  the  dead,  which  he  inherited  from  the 
druids  and  which  Christianity  maintains.  The  pe- 
culiar moral  atmosphere  of  Brittany  favors  this 
result.  With  these  people  the  veil  which  sepa- 
rates the  real  from  the  marvellous  is  very  slight. 
As  already  remarked,  the  true  Breton  is  always  in 
a  state  of  mind  where  an  explanation  of  natural 


SAINTS  AND  FAIRIES  177 

events  is  an  interpretation  of  the  miraculous.    The 
dead  live  intimately  with  the  living. 

M.  Marillier  writes:  "In  Paris  it  is  the  Cult  of 
the  Tomb;  in  Brittany  it  is  the  Cult  of  the  Dead." 
For  the  Breton  kneels  at  any  tomb  he  encounters, 
without  knowing  even  the  name  of  him  for  whom 
he  utters  the  prayer.  M.  Anatole  Le  Braz  in  his 
book,  "La  Legende  de  la  Mort,"  has  made  this  es- 
pecial class  of  folk-lore  familiar  to  us. 

The  Turkish  proverb:  "There  are  fewer  things 
visible  than  invisible,"  applies  to  the  Breton.  In- 
visible to  the  outside  world,  but  he  "has  the  power" 
as  they  say  in  designating  any  one  especially  gifted 
in  "seeing." 

"Ankou"  (Death)  is  abroad  on  the  night  of 
Toussaint  and  the  creaking  of  his  chariot  wheels 
is  heard  by  the  Breton  even  though  he  be  tucked 
away  in  his  armoire  bedstead,  the  sliding  doors 
drawn  tightly  and  his  head  well  under  the  blan- 
kets. On  that  night  processions  of  the  dead  are 
passing  through  fields  and  forests.  A  modest  re- 
past of  Crepe  and  cider — the  nectar  and  ambrosia 
of  Brittany — is  prepared  in  every  household  before 
retiring,  in  case  any  hungry  ghost  should  visit  the 
familiar  hearthstone.  Lugubrious  songs  of  the 
Dead  are  sung  from  door  to  door.  Among  the* 
Breton  legends  mentioned,  many  were  common  to 
other  peoples.  The  cricket  brings  good  fortune. 
They  say:  "Where  the  cricket  sings,  the  good  God 
lives."     A  horseshoe  concealed   in  the  bed  of  a 


178  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

rheumatic  serves  to  lessen  the  pain  of  the  occupant. 
In  Lower  Brittany  when  a  boy  is  born  in  the  house- 
hold they  tie  a  bit  of  red  cloth  around  the  bee-hive. 
On  wedding  days  the  hives  are  decorated  with  rib- 
bons. When  a  death  occurs  they  are  draped  in 
black.  If  the  mother  of  the  family  dies,  the  badge 
remains  for  six  months.  On  Good  Friday  a  small 
cross  of  wax,  blessed  by  the  priest,  is  placed  on  the 
hive.  Melusina,  although  in  origin  a  French 
fairy,  sometimes  figures  in  Breton  folk-lore.  Cin- 
derella, under  another  name,  is  often  the  heroine 
of  Breton  fairy  tales.  In  the  Breton  version,  "The 
Wife  of  the  Grey  Wolf,"  the  story  is  more  charm- 
ing than  in  the  more  familiar  form. 

Poor  dear  Brittany!  Her  forests,  her  moun- 
tains and  her  seas  are  filled  with  Souls  wandering 
hither  and  thither,  weeping  and  groaning.  They 
pass  along  the  silent  roadways  everywhere. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

PLOERMEL,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  THIRTY,  AND 
JOSSELIN 

AND  now  we  are  to  make  a  little  detour — quite 
worth  the  trouble — in  order  to  visit  Ploermel — a 
matter  of  three  or  four  hours'  travel  by  rail.  On 
the  way  we  pass  the  tower  of  Elven,  made  familiar 
to  us  from  the  pages  of  Octave  Feuillet's  "Ro- 
mance of  a  Poor  Young  Man."  It  is  an  imposing 
ruin  of  the  fortress  of  Largouet  and  furnishes  a 
good  example  of  the  medieval  donjon. 

As  we  have  said — every  town  in  Brittany  has  its 
legends.  Those  most  popular  in  Ploermel  are  the 
Legend  of  St.  Armel  and  the  Battle  of  the  Thirty. 
Meyerbeer's  Opera,  "Le  Pardon  de  Ploermel," 
finds  the  mise-en-scene  of  its  libretto  in  this  old 
town  and  the  "Shadow  Dance  of  Dinorah"  was 
suggested  by  the  dance  of  the  Breton  maidens  at  the 
parish  fetes — the  Pardons.  It  is  a  singular  fact 
that  Ploermel  happens  to  be  almost  the  only  town 
in  Brittany  at  which  no  Pardons  occur — a  fact  of 
which  Meyerbeer's  librettist  was  apparently  igno- 
rant. 

179 


180  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

The  church  named  for  the  patron  of  the  town, 
St.  Armel  (Plou,  Breton  for  people — the  people 
of  Armel),  is  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  sculp- 
ture is  fine,  the  windows,  eight  in  number,  are  ex- 
ceptionally beautiful  and  are  the  pride  of  the  faith- 
ful of  Ploermel.  Many  of  the  sculptures  repre- 
sent scenes  in  the  life  of  Christ,  but  certain  bizarre 
figures  suggest  the  jokes  of  Rabelais — among  these 
are  the  sow  playing  bagpipes,  a  cobbler  sewing  up 
his  wife's  mouth  and  a  woman  seizing  her  hus- 
band's bonnet.  Similar  fantastic  sculptures  exist 
on  the  outer  walls  of  the  Cathedral  of  Chaztres. 
These  sculptures  are  preserved  from  the  more 
ancient  church  of  Ploermel  and  are  doubtless  coin- 
cident in  their  inspiration  with  the  spirit  which 
produced  the  "Danse  Macabre"  and  similar  ex- 
amples— episodes  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Our  next  objective  point  is  Josselin.  Thither  we 
travel  by  private  conveyance.  Half-way  between 
Ploermel  and  Josselin  occurred  an  event,  the  rec- 
ord of  which  furnishes — to  quote  M.  Petit  de  Jul- 
leville  of  the  Sorbonne — the  "most  brilliant  page 
in  French  History."  This  came  to  pass  on  March 
27,  1350,  during  the  One  Hundred  Years  war,  at 
a  moment  when  the  chief  struggle  was  between 
England  and  Brittany.  Bembro  (Froissart's  bad 
spelling  for  Pembroke),  had  been  appointed  by 
Edward  III,  Governor  of  Ploermel,  and  Beauma- 
noir  (Breton)  was  Governor  of  Josselin.  It  had 
been  agreed  to  end  a  certain  quarrel — a  side  issue, 


PLOERMEL,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  THIRTY     1S1 

by  choosing  thirty  English  and  thirty  Bretons,  who 
should  settle  the  question  by  arms.  The  place 
chosen  for  the  battle  was  the  famous  oak  of  Mi- 
voie,  exactly  half-way  between  Josselin  and  Ploer- 
mel.  Each  Captain  chose  his  thirty  men.  When 
the  day  arrived  chiefs  and  champions  first  heard 
mass,  then  repaired  to  the  rendezvous.  All  the 
nobility  of  the  country  came  to  witness  the  spec- 
tacle. Each  party's  Chief  made  the  usual  ha- 
rangue, and  the  battle  commenced.  Beaumanoir 
is  wounded.  He  asks  for  water.  "Drink  thy  own 
blood,"  a  Breton  voice  shouted  in  reply,  and  "bois 
ton  sang"  remained  the  war-cry  of  the  Beauman- 
oirs  thereafter.  Even  Froissart,  although  pen- 
sioned by  the  King  of  England,  and  therefore  pos- 
sibly biased  in  his  judgment,  admits  the  victory  of 
the  Bretons.  The  glory  of  this  battle  was,  how- 
ever, for  a  long  time  disputed  by  careful  historians, 
but  the  question  has  now  been  settled  by  two  strong 
testimonies — first  the  contemporaneous  poem  dis- 
covered lately  at  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale,  and 
second  the  chapter  of  Froissart  restored  by  its  edi- 
tor, M.  Buchon.  Thus,  celebrated  by  poets,  sung 
by  minstrels,  wrought  in  tapestries,  the  Battle  of 
the  Thirty  became  so  famous  that  for  one  hundred 
years  men  were  wont  to  say,  in  speaking  of  great 
battles:  "They  fought  like  the  Battle  of  the 
Thirty." 

We  reach  Mivoie  after  an  hour's  drive.    After 
the  verdure  and  beauty  of  Ploermel,   the  place 


1 82  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

seems  barren.  Everywhere  grows  the  bunches  of 
wild  broom,  just  as  when  five  and  one-half  cen- 
turies ago,  each  Breton  of  the  Thirty  gathered  a 
spray  for  his  helmet  before  going  into  the  battle. 
The  obelisk  which  marks  the  spot  is  a  modest  and 
ugly  affair  of  granite,  placed  in  the  center  of  a  star 
planted  with  pines  and  cypresses.  Upon  one  side 
of  the  shaft  are  engraven  the  names  of  the  Thirty 
Breton  warriors. 

At  Josselin  one  finds  much  to  enjoy.  The  cha- 
teau has  been  restored  without  sacrificing  its  char- 
acter. The  Duke  de  Rohan  is  its  present  hospit- 
able occupant.  Visitors  are  allowed  to  see  the 
chateau  on  certain  days,  usually  on  Monday.  The 
church  of  itself  is  worth  making  the  journey  to  see. 
It  is  of  the  thirteenth  century.  There  we  find  the 
splendid  tomb  of  the  great  Oliver  Clisson  and 
Margaret  Rohan,  his  wife,  represented  in  marble, 
lying  side  by  side,  each  pair  of  hands  devoutly 
joined,  the  great  Constable  in  coat  of  mail,  at  his 
feet  a  lion,  at  Margaret's  feet  a  greyhound  with 
her  young.  The  ancient  glass  of  the  windows  is 
rare  and  beautiful.  This  church,  Notre  Dame  du 
Roncier,  was  famous  through  centuries  for  the 
miracles  wrought  at  the  Shrine  of  the  miraculous 
Virgin — a  black  Virgin,  was  found  under  a  black- 
berry bush  in  a  field,  and  upon  this  spot  the  church 
was  built.  Since  when,  the  town  has  built  itself 
about  the  church.  Pilgrims  came  from  remote 
parts  of  France  to  intercede  and  invoke,  and  votive 


PLOERMEL,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  THIRTY     183 

offerings  on  the  part  of  the  cured  were  many  and 
rich.  I  have  read  a  book  filled  with  astonishing 
statements,  all  duly  verified.  Perhaps  the  most 
curious  of  these  is  the  account  of  a  singular  mani- 
festation, the  story  of  which  has  come  to  be  a 
legend — The  Legend  of  the  Barking  Women  of 
Josselin.  In  a  parish  near  Josselin,  a  long  time 
ago,  some  women  were  washing  their  linen  at  a 
fountain,  when  a  poor  woman — a  beggar — passed 
by,  asking  alms.  Now  these  women  were  hard  of 
heart,  and  not  given  to  deeds  of  charity:  "Go  your 
way,"  they  said  to  her,  severely,  and  as  the  stranger 
insisted,  they  sent  their  dogs,  barking  at  her,  to 
drive  her  away.  Now  this  beggar  was  the  Virgin 
Mary.  "Heartless  women,"  she  cried,  suddenly 
appearing  radiant  as  they  gazed  at  her,  "you  will 
be  severely  punished  for  your  crime.  Since  you 
do  not  know  how  to  conduct  yourselves  as  Chris- 
tians, you  and  your  children  after  you  shall  bark 
like  these  dogs  that  you  have  set  upon  me." 

Since  when  (until  several  years  ago  when  M. 
Anatole  Le  Braz  and  M.  Charles  Le  Goffic  got  a 
law  passed  interdicting  the  custom)  on  the  fete- 
day  of  the  Virgin  there  came  people,  barking  like 
dogs  and  suffering  great  agony,  to  invoke  the  aid 
of  Mary,  at  whose  shrine  they  were  cured  of  their 
strange  malady.  Sometimes  men  have  been  the 
victims  of  the  malediction. 

It  would  be  a  pity  not  to  improve  the  opportun- 
ity of  visiting  the  Forest  of  Paimpont,  the  Broce- 


184  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

liande  of  the  Arthurian  Tales.  This  may  be  done 
by  driving  from  Ploermel  about  fifteen  miles,  to 
Plelan,  in  itself  worth  a  visit — a  little  beyond 
Plelan  is  the  town  of  Paimpont,  situated  in  the 
forest.  In  this  forest  Merlin  the  Enchanter,  him- 
self under  the  spell  of  the  Enchantress  Vivian,  lies 
imprisoned  under  a  rock.  So  the  Breton  bards  af- 
firm (and  I  never  doubt  what  the  bards  tell  me!) 
Sometimes  the  traveller  in  Brittany  almost  imag- 
ines himself  under  a  spell — so  subtle  is  the  in- 
fluence of  the  legendary  atmosphere  in  which  the 
Breton  exists. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

LE  CROISIC,  BATZ  AND  GUERANDE 

BUT  we  must  now  return  to  Ploermel,  where  we 
take  train  southward  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  a 
cluster  of  towns  on  the  seacoast — Le  Croisic,  Batz 
and  Guerande.  The  last-named  was  the  ancient 
Capital  of  Brittany,  and  it  has  preserved  its  feudal 
aspect  as  only  two  other  towns  of  France  have 
done,  Vitre,  which  we  have  visited,  and  Avignon 
in  Provence.  No  more  beautiful  picture  of  an 
ancient  household,  personages  and  customs  of  a 
Breton  town  can  be  found  than  that  given  by  Bal- 
zac in  his  "Beatrix,"  in  which  Guerande  furnishes 
the  mise-en-scene. 

Guerande  in  its  position  is  the  summit  of  a  tri- 
angle, at  the  other  angle  of  which  are  Batz  and 
Le  Croisic,  both  places  no  less  curious  and  inter- 
esting. Guerande  is  still  surrounded  by  its  ancient 
walls,  its  battlements  are  entire,  its  loop-holes  even 
are  perfect.  The  streets  are  as  they  were  four 
hundred  years  ago,  although  now  almost  deserted. 

185 


i86  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Placed  in  this  remote  corner  of  the  Continent,  Gue- 
rande  leads  nowhere  and  no  one  goes  to  Guerande. 
It  is  silent,  melancholy  and  beautiful — proud  of 
former  importance,  however,  for  it  was  not  only 
the  Capital  of  Brittany,  but  the  great  Du  Guesclins 
were  the  ancient  lords  of  the  Castle  and  the  do- 
main. And  in  our  travels  in  Brittany  one  may  find 
the  seemingly  identical  Guenics,  the  old  Baron, 
Mademoiselle  Zephirine,  Calyste  and  Gasselin, 
and  all  the  other  types  which  Balzac,  in  his  novel, 
has  so  admirably,  portrayed.  To  poet,  artist  or 
archaeologist,  Guerande  is  a  place  after  his  own 
heart. 

It  is  a  delightful  drive  from  Guerande  to  Batz 
— along  the  shore — rocks  and  ocean  at  our  left — 
at  our  right  the  salt  marshes.  We  watch  the  men 
of  Batz  in  their  white  costumes  dipping  the  salt 
from  the  vats.  The  costumes  of  the  women  are 
renowned  for  their  elaborateness,  and  no  Breton 
town  enters  into  competition  with  It  in  this  regard. 

The  third  of  this  triangular  group  of  towns  is 
Le  Croisic.  It  might  be  described  as  a  few  streets 
flung  out  upon  a  jagged  rocky  point.  But  let  us 
take  Robert  Browning's  more  graphic  description: 
"Croisic,  the  spit  of  sandy  rock  which  juts  spite- 
fully northward,  bears  nor  tree  nor  shrub  to  tempt 
the  ocean  ...  all  stub  of  rock  and  stretch  of  sand, 
the  land's  last  strife  to  rescue  a  poor  remnant  for 
dear  life."  Browning  has  made  this  trio  of  Breton 
towns  unforgettable.     Guerande — a  veritable  bit 


LE    CROISIC,    BATZ    AND    GUERANDE     187 

of  Italian  softness,  balmy  air,  tender  sky,  fruitful, 
verdant  with  perfume  of  violet  and  spreading 
green  of  figtrees.  Batz  and  its  picturesque  men 
and  women  and  Croisic  with  its  "Two  Poets," 
whom  he  has  rescued  from  oblivion,  through  his 
satire,  not  in  his  best  style,  it  is  true,  but  in  better 
verses  than  either  of  the  "Two"  had  dreamed  of  in 
his  day.  Especially  has  Robert  Browning  made 
Croisic  unforgettable — not  because  he  lived  there, 
for  the  simple  folk  do  not  dream  what  poet  dwelt 
among  them  those  summers,  but  chiefly  because 
"Herve  Riel,"  the  "Croisickese,"  has  been  so 
beautifully  framed  in  one  of  his  finest  poems.  This 
rocky  coast  of  Croisic  is  a  fit  training-school  for 
such  sailors  as  our  hero  of  "St.  Malo."  We 
walked  along  the  shore  among  the  fisher-folk  and 
met  our  Herve  Riel  more  than  once.  He  looks 
to-day  to  be  of  the  same  valiant  stuff  as  when  he 
"up-stood,  out-stepped,  in-struck,"  to  save  the 
French  fleet  on  that  thirty-first  of  May,  1692,  at  St. 
Malo  on  the  Ranee.  The  type  abounds  on  this 
rocky  shore  of  Croisic:  "Not  a  symptom  of  sur- 
prise,— in  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes,"  exactly  de- 
scribes the  Herve  Riel  we  met  in  Croisic.  Nor  is 
the  "Belle  Aurore"  lacking.  We  saw — we  believe 
we  saw — Herve  Riel  and  his  "Belle  Aurore"  and 
flocks  of  little  Herve  Riels  and  Belle  Aurores  on 
a  September  morning  in  1896. 

But  for  Robert  Browning's  poem,  the  hero  of 
Croisic  would  not  have  been  to-day  rehabilitated. 


188  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

When  the  English  poet  in  his  "Herv6  Riel" 
wrote : 

"Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 
In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell;" 

he  little  dreamed  that  it  was  this  very  poem  that 
would  serve  to  "keep  alive  the  feat";  and  that  a 
beautiful  statue  would  stand  as  "pillar"  or  "post." 

During  two  centuries  the  people  of  le  Croisic 
had  "heard  tell"  of  a  brave  deed  of  a  mariner  of 
their  coast.  Like  all  legends,  the  story  passed  from 
lip  to  lip — from  one  generation  to  another — an  old 
tale  retold  by  some  mariner  to  pass  the  time  on 
nights  of  watching  for  a  belated  vessel.  But 
legends  are  history — veiled  by  the  myth,  it  is  true 
— and  to-day  the  legend  of  Croisic,  the  legend  of 
Herve  Riel — is  history,  illustrated  by  the  fete  and 
to  be  perpetuated  by  the  statue. 

After  the  death  of  his  wife,  Robert  Browning 
sought  solitude.  Lower  Brittany,  which  until 
then  had  had  no  associations  with  his  life,  offered 
the  conditions  desired,  and  he  spent  several  sum- 
mers at  Pornic  and  Saint-Marie.  The  summer 
of  1866  found  him  at  Le  Croisic.  Here  the  poet 
lived  during  the  summers  of  1866  and  '67,  and 
here  the  poem  "Herve  Riel"  was  written. 

Little  knew  the  folk  of  Croisic  what  manner  of 
man  was  in  their  midst  those  summers   "takin* 


LE    CROISIC,    BATZ    AND    GUERANDE     189 

notes !"  In  fact  the  name  of  Robert  Browning  was 
unknown  to  Croisic  until  recently.  Now,  how- 
ever, it  has  become  a  household  word.  The  poem 
"Herve  Riel,"  translated  into  French  and  recited 
by  an  artist  from  the  Theatre  Frangais,  at  the 
inauguration  of  the  statue,  will  never  be  for- 
gotten in  old  Croisic  town.  Robert  Browning's 
poem,  "Herve  Riel,"  furnished  the  inspiration 
which  resulted  in  the  placing  and  inauguration  of 
the  statue  of  the  hero  of  Croisic,  which  stands  on 
the  shores  of  his  native  town,  and  which  has  made 
known  to  his  compatriots  what  a  brave  deed  was 
done  by  one  of  them.  How  can  such  an  event  be 
other  than  inspiring  to  those  who  know  the  story 
which  the  poem  has  embodied  and  celebrated? 

One  day  in  Paris,  at  the  Salon  of  1910,  the  at- 
tention of  M.  Port  was  attracted  by  the  work  of  a 
young  sculptor,  Rene  Paris.  The  statue  bore  for 
title:  "A  Pilot  Among  Rocks."  He  found  that 
the  model  who  had  posed  for  the  statue  was  a  sailor 
of  Croisic.  The  coincidence  was  suggestive,  and 
as  the  model  chanced  to  be  a  nephew  of  the  Mayor 
of  Croisic,  M.  Port  thought  the  moment  propi- 
tious, and  seized  the  opportunity.  He  wrote  to  the 
Mayor,  proposing  the  placing  of  the  Statue  at 
Croisic.  Meantime  the  Under  Secretary  of  State 
for  Fine  Arts  offered  his  aid,  and  through  his 
influence  the  Municipal  Council  of  Paris  voted 
the  necessary  expenses,  and  the  bronze  was  or- 
dered.   Thus  it  came  about  that  without  opening 


i9o  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

a  subscription,  the  statue  awaited  its  place  in  le 
Croisic.  The  Municipal  Council  of  le  Croisic 
bought  the  site  and  voted  money  for  the  Inaugural 
Fete.  At  Croisic  it  was  a  Hero  to  be  honoured 
instead  of  a  saint — though,  of  course,  many  a  saint 
has  been  a  hero  in  his  day — and  the  ovation  was 
profane,  for  no  mass  was  said  in  the  parish  church, 
but  priests,  bourgoisie  and  fisherfolk,  men  of  let- 
ters from  Paris,  officers  of  the  marine — "all  sorts 
and  conditions"  gathered  about  the  statue  erected 
in  honour  of  a  coasting  pilot  of  Croisic,  born  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ago;  and  thus  it  came  to 
pass  that  le  Croisic  recognized  her  hero. 

After  the  fourteenth  century  the  history  of  Croi- 
sic was  the  history  of  Brittany.  The  oldest  monu- 
ment of  Croisic  is  the  Pierre  Longue — the  (so 
called)  druidic  stone.  The  chapel  of  St.  Goustan 
comes  next,  dating  from  six  hundred  and  fifty.  It 
has  its  popular  legend — that  of  St.  Gousten — who, 
overtaken  by  a  storm,  landed  at  Croisic,  and,  over- 
come by  fatigue,  slept  lying  on  a  rock  on  the 
shore.  The  imprint  of  the  saint  is  still  visible  on 
the  rock — so  the  story  must  be  true! 

On  the  coast  we  find  Pornic — "just  where  the 
sea  and  the  Loire  unite,"  Browning's  poem, 
"Golden  Hair,"  has  it.  This  little  town  is  at  pres- 
ent popular  as  a  summer  resort.  But  the  legend 
and  its  setting,  as  embodied  in  the  poem,  alone 
make  Pornic  interesting  to-day.  The  ancient 
church,  beneath  the  altar  of  which  the  "beautiful 


LE    CROISIC,    BATZ    AND    GUERANDE     191 

girl  too  white"  was  buried,  has  vanished,  and  an 
ugly  modern  structure  replaces  it. 

A  mile  from  Pornic  we  find  the  bit  of  coast  and 
sea  and  house  and  fig-tree  of  the  poem:  "James 
Lee's  Wife."  The  Pornic  legend  embodied  in  the 
poem  "Golden  Hair"  is  redolent  of  the  peculiar 
Breton  flavor.  The  unsuspected  sin  of  avarice 
bears  its  sinister  fruit,  springing  from  the  golden 
hair  coiled  "aye"  down  to  her  breasts. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

NANTES   AND   ANNE   OF    BRITTANY 

A  VERY  agreeable  way  of  reaching  Nantes, 
which  brings  us  into  the  Department  of  the  Loire 
Inferieure,  and  is  our  next  stopping  place — is  to 
sail  up  the  river  Loire.  Nantes  has  a  rich  and  va- 
ried history.  For  its  early  records  we  must  go  to 
Caesar  and  Tacitus.  Its  ecclesiastical  history  in- 
cludes a  list  of  great  names,  as  do  its  civil  records. 
Early  Kings  of  Brittany  figure  among  these.  To- 
day Nantes  is  strongly  commercial  in  its  atmos- 
phere, and  one  is  forced  to  search  out  the  few 
ancient  landmarks,  so  hemmed  in  are  they  with 
handsome  modern  buildings. 

The  house  from  which  was  issued  the  famous 
Edict  of  Nantes  in  1598,  still  exists  and  may  be 
visited. 

In  the  Cathedral  of  Nantes,  the  traveller  pauses 
to  admire  a  beautiful  tomb  in  black  and  white 
marble — a  superb  work  from  the  hand  of  a  Breton 
sculptor  too  little  known — one  of  the  few  happy 
artists  who  have  left  only  masterpieces  to  mark  his 

192 


ANNE    OF    BRITTANY 
From  a  commemorative  medal  by  Jehan  de  Paris  made  in  14()t)  when  Anne. 
widow  of  Charles  VIII.  married  Louis  XII 


NANTES  AND  ANNE  OF  BRITTANY        193 

passage  through  the  latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury— Michel  Colomb,  as  sculptor,  will  not  easily 
be  forgotten  by  anyone  who  has  travelled  through 
Brittany. 

Within  this  beautiful  tomb  rest  the  ashes  of 
Francis  II,  last  of  Brittany's  dukes.  And  in  a  cas- 
ket of  gold,  of  rich  workmanship,  in  the  year  15 14, 
was  placed  the  heart  of  a  woman — daughter  of 
Francis  II — Anne,  the  last  Duchess  of  Brittany, 
and  twice  Queen  of  France.  Among  the  sepul- 
chers  of  St.  Denis  we  find  her  tomb  beside  those 
of  her  two  royal  husbands — Charles  VIII  and 
Louis  XII.  But  she  begged  that  her  heart  might 
be  sent  to  her  own  Bretons — a  heart  ever  loyal  to 
her  Province. 

Anne  of  Brittany,  deprived  of  her  mother  in  her 
infancy,  shared  the  confidence  of  her  father,  and 
generally  accompanied  him  upon  his  various  expe- 
ditions. The  descriptions  of  historians  and  the 
portrait  in  her  book  of  hours  preserved  in  the 
Bibliotheque  Nationale  show  her  to  have  been  a 
person  of  great  charm.  The  record  of  the  year 
following  the  death  of  her  father  (Anne  was  then 
fourteen)  is  full  of  romance.  Although  her  duchy 
was  threatened,  Anne  was  still  the  richest  and  most 
powerful  heiress  on  the  continent.  Any  prince  to 
whom  she  should  bring  Brittany  as  her  dower  was 
sure  to  hold  the  balance  of  power  in  Europe.  The 
Prince  of  Orange  was  one  of  her  many  royal  suit- 
ors, but  unfortunately  for  his  suit,  he  had  solicited 


i94  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

the  interference  of  the  Pope.  When  Anne  learned 
this  she  protested  publicly,  declaring  that  she  de- 
tested him.  And  when  she  discovered  the  plans 
laid  for  carrying  her  off  in  spite  of  herself,  she 
galloped  across  Brittany  on  horseback,  followed 
by  guardians,  councillors  and  governess,  and, 
reaching  Nantes,  asked  for  admission.  But  the 
Ambassador  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  had  been 
there  in  advance,  and  the  gates  of  the  city  were 
closed  to  her.  In  fact  the  Marshal  of  Nantes 
came  outside  the  gates  to  capture  her.  But  if  they 
imagined  they  were  dealing  with  a  child,  they 
found  themselves  repulsed  by  a  heroine.  "A  Mot, 
Dunois"  she  shouted  to  her  only  defender,  the 
faithful  Chancellor,  and,  springing  to  the  saddle 
behind  him,  off  they  gallopped  to  a  place  of  safety. 
After  passing  two  weeks  in  the  fields,  she  still  pro- 
tested that  she  would  bury  herself  in  a  cloister 
rather  than  marry  this  insistent  Prince.  And  then, 
called  by  her  faithful  subjects  at  Rennes,  she  made 
her  ducal  entrance  in  that  city  and  took  the  oath 
before  Parliament  as  her  predecessors  had  done. 

Finally  the  young  King  of  France  resolved  to 
marry  Anne  himself,  and  she,  seeing  no  other  way 
out  politically  for  Brittany,  gave  him  her  hand. 
Nature  had  refused  Charles  VIII  nearly  every 
advantage  of  mind  and  body.  He  was  at  that  time 
twenty  years  of  age,  Anne  was  fifteen. 

A  bit  of  sentiment  lingered  in  Anne's  heart.  The 
Duke  of  Orleans,  of  all  the  pretenders,  had  been 


NANTES  AND  ANNE  OF  BRITTANY        195 

the  one  most  favored  by  her.  That  visit  at  the 
Chateau  of  Nantes  had  left  a  romantic  interest  in 
the  hearts  of  both  Anne  and  Louis.  At  this  mo- 
ment, however,  he  was  submissive  to  his  cousin, 
and  also  grateful,  for  Charles  had  rescued  him 
from  the  iron  cage  of  Bourges  in  spite  of  the  Re- 
gent of  France.  Hence  Louis  had  come  in  person 
to  adjure  all  hope  for  himself,  and  to  beg  Anne  to 
give  herself  to  his  royal  cousin. 

Fifteen  days  later  the  royal  troops  departed  from 
Brittany  and  Anne  left  Rennes  to  join  the  King 
at  Langeais  on  the  Loire. 

With  fifteen  days  in  which  to  arrange  a  royal 
trousseau — it  is  interesting  to  note,  quoting  pre- 
cisely from  our  Charlotte  d' Albert,  that  the  "Duch- 
ess Anne  came  to  the  castle  attended  by  a  great 
train  of  Breton  lords  and  ladies,  and  she  brought 
rich  store  of  clothing  and  of  household  plenishing. 
Most  magnificent  of  all  her  robes  was  her  wedding 
gown  of  cloth  of  gold  of  more  than  ten  thousand 
pounds  in  value,  and  its  train  and  her  mantle  were 
bordered  with  an  hundred  and  sixty  skins  of  er- 
mine." 

The  reign  of  Queen  Anne  was  worthy  and  noble. 
She  was  submissive  to  her  husband.  She  protected 
her  beloved  Bretons,  opening  high  careers  and  the 
best  positions  in  the  court  and  army  to  her  com- 
patriots. She  held  her  court  to  the  most  rigid 
rules  of  propriety  and  the  most  scrupulous  eti- 
quette.    She  had  much  to  do  to  close  the  lips  of 


196  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

calumny  and  perhaps  to  silence  her  own  heart — 
who  knows?  And  the  young,  brilliant  and  pas- 
sionate Louis  of  Orleans,  when  an  indiscreet  ex- 
pression of  regard  for  Anne  escaped  him,  found 
himself  banished  from  court  by  his  queen.  Queen 
Anne  gave  two  daughters  to  France — Claude  and 
Renee.    All  Brittany  feted  these  events. 

Six  years  after  the  marriage  Charles  died  and 
Louis  became  King.  Anne  had  returned  to  Brit- 
tany at  the  death  of  Charles  VIII.  After  four 
months  our  widow  of  twenty-one  accepts  the  pro- 
posal of  Louis  XII,  and  again  mounts  the  throne 
of  France. 

And  now  we  note  a  change  in  the  role  of  Anne 
of  Brittany.  No  longer  a  merely  submissive  and 
reserved  wife,  she  became  a  veritable  sovereign 
and  a  consummate  diplomat.  She  had  a  large 
share  in  the  governing  of  France,  as  of  Brittany. 
She  was  the  first  Queen  of  France  to  establish  the, 
ladies  court  and  she  founded  an  Order  of  Chivalry 
for  women,  based  on  moral  worth.  She  had  a 
bodyguard — mostly  Bretons,  who  attended  her 
wherever  she  went — always  waiting  her  orders  on 
the  little  terrace  at  Blois,  which  we  see  to-day  in 
visiting  this  chateau  on  the  Loire.  It  still  bears 
the  name  Anne  gave  it: — "My  Bretons'  Perch." 
The  King  treated  her  with  the  greatest  honour  and 
respect.  In  private  he  called  her  "ma  petite 
Brette."  Anne  is  perhaps  the  only  Queen  of 
France  who  has  known  how  to  hold  to  the  last  the 


NANTES  AND  ANNE  OF  BRITTANY         197 

love  of  her  husband.  He  wrote  long  verses  to  her,, 
in  Latin,  when  he  was  past  fifty.  To  be  sure,  they 
were  composed  by  his  secretary!  Anne  replied  to 
them  in  the  same  language,  the  replies  being  com- 
posed by  herself.  Men  of  letters  and  artists  found 
in  her  appreciation  and  patronage.  Anne's  taste 
for  arts,  poetry  and  ancient  literature  is  a  well- 
established  fact.  She  knew  her  Greek  as  well  as 
she  knew  her  Latin.  It  was,  in  fact,  she  who  was 
preparing  for  the  Renaissance  of  Arts  and  Letters 
which  was  to  immortalize  her  son-in-law,  Fran- 
cis I.  Her  court  was  a  school  of  virtues,  a  triumph 
of  politics  and  an  Academy  of  Arts  and  Belles  Let- 
tres.  It  is  said  that  even  the  little  Renee — worthy 
daughter  of  her  mother — discoursed  so  loftily  of 
astronomy  as  to  astonish  the  court. 

On  the  ninth  of  January,  15 14,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-seven,  Queen  Anne  died  and  her  body  was 
laid  in  the  tomb  beside  the  place  reserved  for 
Louis  XII.  The  heart  of  their  Duchess  was  re- 
ceived by  the  Bretons,  at  Nantes,  with  great  solem- 
nity and  pomp.  The  Bretons,  not  to  be  outdone  by 
France,  who  had  lighted  four  thousand  candles  at 
Notre  Dame,  at  the  funeral  of  their  Queen,  lighted 
five  thousand  in  the  Cathedral  at  Nantes  in  honour 
of  their  Duchess. 

The  adherence  of  Queen  Anne  to  the  customs 
and  costumes  of  her  Province  has  furnished  the 
material  for  many  a  legend.  One  of  these  has  it 
that  she  mounted  the  throne  of  France  in  wooden 


198  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

shoes  and  we  have  spoken  of  the  famous  and  popu- 
lar rondo,  which  we  always  sing  at  the  Breton 
banquets  and  fetes,  the  same  as  sung  by  old  Marc'- 
harit,  entitled:  "The  Sabots  of  Anne  of  Brittany," 
beginning:  "C'etait  Anne  de  Bretagne,  avec  ses 
sabots"  and  each  refrain:  "Vivent  les  sabots  de 
bois." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

CLISSON,  THE  GROTTO  OF  ABELARD  AND  THE  CASTLE 
OF  TIFFAUGES 

FROM  Nantes  to  Clisson  it  is  only  an  hour  by 
rail,  and  it  is  worth  a  much  longer  journey  to  visit 
the  ruins  of  this  fine  example  of  a  medieval  castle 
of  the  first  order.  This  was  the  domain  of  the 
Lords  of  the  House  of  Clisson,  another  of  whose 
castles  we  saw  at  Josselin,  for  more  than  a  single 
castle  was  needed  to  satisfy  a  Breton  lord  in  olden 
times.  Situated  upon  a  high  rocky  point  overlook- 
ing the  country  about,  its  walls  twelve  feet  in  thick- 
ness, the  towers  and  battlements  adapted  to  the 
fierce  conflicts  of  the  middle  age,  this  castle  of 
Clisson  recalls  strongly  the  feudal  history  of  Brit- 
tany. 

Almost  within  sight,  as  we  stand  on  the  parapet, 
is  the  grotto,  sacred  to  the  souvenirs  of  the  lovers, 
whose  tomb  at  Pere  La  Chaise  is  the  shrine  sought 
by  all  the  world  who  loves  a  lover.  On  the  route 
from  Nantes  to  Clisson  we  had  passed  Le  Palet,  a 
little  hamlet  where,  in  1079,  the  most  subtle  dialec- 

199 


200  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

tician  of  his  time — Abelard — was  born.  When  the 
lovers,  in  the  early  period  of  their  troubles,  sought 
absolute  solitude,  where  could  it  be  found  more 
complete  than  in  this  wild  and  desolate  Morbihan? 
Hither  they  fled  from  Paris.  Here  their  child  was 
born.  As  we  sat  near  this  grotto  in  the  twilight  of 
an  evening  in  June,  and  recalled  the  story  which 
furnishes  the  most  romantic  page  in  the  annals  of 
the  sons  of  Brittany,  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the 
forest  and  the  singing  of  the  nightingales  in  the 
branches  overhead,  seemed  a  fit  setting  for  the 
souvenirs  of  the  story  of  Abelard  and  Heloise. 

In  a  solitary  spot  on  the  shore  of  the  Gulf  of 
Morbihan  we  find  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey  of  St. 
Gildas,  which  are  well  worth  visiting.  Here  Abe- 
lard passed  a  few  unhappy  years,  persecuted  by  the 
monks  of  that  order.  To-day  his  spectre  seems  to 
be  wandering  among  the  weird  rocks  and  grottos 
of  this  solitary  spot. 

Each  period  of  the  history  of  Morbihan — the 
Roman,  the  Medieval  and  the  Revolutionary,  has 
been  vigorous  and  dramatic  in  its  manifestation. 
And  the  historic  personages  of  this  portion  of  Brit- 
tany are  of  a  character  which  seems  fitted  to  the 
stern  and  gloomy  aspect  of  its  history,  as  well  as  its 
topography. 

Vannes — chief  city  and  capital  of  Morbihan — 
has  its  two  distinct  divisions,  the  ancient  and  the 
less  ancient — for  no  part  of  it  is  modern.  The  for- 
mer is  still  surrounded  with  its  ancient  walls  and  is 


CLISSON,  THE  GROTTO  OF  ABELARD    201 

dominated  by  the  Cathedral.  The  streets  are  nar- 
row and  crooked. 

Only  one  place  remains  for  us  to  visit  together. 
It  offers  a  rather  somber  end  of  our  little  journeys. 
For  we  shall  find  this  last  chateau,  which  we  are 
about  to  visit,  presenting  a  strong  contrast  to  the 
cheerful,  hospitable  garden,  avenues  and  entrance 
to  that  first  chateau  which  we  travelled  together 
to  Vitre  to  see  the  Chateau  Les  Rochers — per- 
vaded with  the  graceful  and  charming  atmosphere 
of  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

An  hour  of  railway  travel  brings  us  from  Clis- 
son  to  Tiffauges — the.  most  important  of  the  Blue- 
beard castles.  Of  the  many  Bluebeard  legends 
Brittany  furnishes  three.  First  the  Legend  of  the 
Count  of  Comorre  of  the  country  of  TreguierA  of 
an  unenviable  reputation  respecting  his  wives,  of 
whom  he  had  four  in  suspiciously  rapid  succes- 
sion, all  four  disappearing  mysteriously.  Second, 
the  legend  which  the  French  poet,  Leconte  de 
Lisle,  has  so  beautifully  framed  in  one  of  his 
poems  to  be  found  in  the  collection  entitled: 
"Poemes  Babares."  Lastly,  the  Legend  of  Gilles 
de  Rais.  Among  the  bravest  generals  who  fought 
with  Charles  VII  and  Jeanne  d'Arc  for  his  coun- 
try was  Gilles  de  Rais,  Marshal  of  France  and 
Lieutenant-Governor  of  Brittany — one  of  the 
greatest  soldiers  of  the  kingdom — allied  to  royal 
and  ducal  families.  He  was  born  in  1404,  and  be- 
came lord  of  many  castles  and  parishes.     At  the 


202  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

age  of  twenty-four  he  was  versed  in  letters, 
science  and  religion.  After  having  borne  his 
sword  with  honour  in  the  wars  he  gave  himself  up 
to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  became  an  adept 
in  that  monomania  of  the  Middle  Ages — sorcery. 
His  establishments  were  regal.  He  supported  a 
guard  of  two  hundred  knights,  a  complete  com- 
pany of  comedians,  a  chapel  of  thirty  monks,  a  boy 
choir  and  musicians,  a  horde  of  servants  who  were 
fed  and  clothed  like  the  servants  of  princes,  and 
who  followed  him  on  horseback  wherever  he  went. 
He  held  open  house  and  his  table  abounded  in 
costliest  food  and  wines.  His  chapels  were  en- 
riched with  ornaments,  cloth  of  gold  and  silver, 
censors,  candelabra,  crosses  and  cups  of  gold,  and 
an  organ  which  he  carried  with  him  everywhere. 
His  comedians  played  mysteries  and  also  love 
pieces,  called  at  that  time  Moresques.  The  habit- 
ual scenes  of  the  revels  of  this  Breton  lord  were 
near  Nantes,  also  at  Vannes,  at  the  castle  of  Chan- 
toce,  but  above  all  at  TifTauges.  Finally,  after 
having  sold  and  squandered  the  greater  part  of  his 
lands,  Gilles  de  Rais  undertook  to  make  gold  in 
order  to  satisfy  his  increasing  passions,  and  threw 
himself  into  the  depths  of  alchemy  and  sorcery. 
He  sought  out  in  Germany,  Italy  and  elsewhere  in 
Europe  those  engaged  in  this  pursuit.  In  the 
gloomy  subterranean  passages  of  the  Castle  of  Tif- 
fauges,  assassination  mingled  with  the  orgies.  We 
see  to-day  the  chapel  in  which  the  Black  Mass  took 


CLISSON,  THE  GROTTO  OF  ABELARD    203 

place  during  these  orgies.  With  his  own  hands 
he  strangled  young  children,  and  crowned  his 
diablerie,  assisted  by  his  chaplains  and  valets,  with 
sacrilegious  processions  and  infamous  ceremonies. 
He  studied  the  refinements  of  cruelty.  An  old 
woman,  veiled  in  black,  hunted  in  the  fields  and 
forests  of  the  neighbourhood  little  shepherdesses 
and  enticed  them  to  the  fatal  castle,  after  which 
they  were  never  seen  again.  The  inhabitants  be- 
lieved they  were  carried  off  by  fairies.  The  oub- 
liettes of  Tiffauges  kept  their  victims  and  their 
secrets  for  years.  But  there  came  a  time  when 
questions  were  asked — terrible  cries  had  been 
heard  at  night,  and  finally  suspicion  was  aroused 
and  complaints  made.  The  matter  was  brought 
before  the  Bishop  of  Nantes.  Investigations 
brought  to  light  the  skeletons  of  one  hundred  and 
forty  children  in  the  subterranean  vaults  of  Tif- 
fauges alone.  The  Marshal,  when  questioned,  re- 
fused at  first  to  reply — but  the  threat  of  torture 
brought  from  him  confessions  enough  to  hang 
scores  of  men.  His  declarations  are  unfit  for 
thought  or  mention.  Condemned  to  be  burned, 
this  monster  of  wickedness  disappeared,  and 
thenceforth  the  name  of  Gilles  de  Rais  was  some- 
thing to  frighten  children  with. 

At  one  of  the  bridges  named  Belle  Croix,  at 
Nantes,  at  the  spot  where  one  sees  the  image  of  the 
Virgin,  is  an  ancient  monument  placed  in  the  wall 
to  mark  the  place  of  the  execution  of  Marshal 


204  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

Gilles  de  Rais.  The  records  of  his  trial  are  pre- 
served in  the  archives  of  Nantes.  His  remains 
were  buried  in  the  Church  of  the  Carmelites. 

At  the  castle  of  Tiffauges,  the  formidable  figure 
of  this  Satanic  individual,  who  was  the  twofold 
embodiment  of  the  most  perfect  artist  and  the  most 
cruel  monster,  constantly  confronts  us.  We  do  not 
need  to  call  upon  the  imagination  to  aid  in  pictur- 
ing the  interior  of  the  Castle  of  Tiffauges,  as  it  was 
in  the  fifteenth  century.  Documents  exist  which 
are  precise.  The  lofty  arched  walls  of  this  now 
ruined  castle  were  resplendent  with  the  sumptu- 
ousness  of  the  period — wainscoting  of  rich  woods, 
tapestries  brilliant  in  gold  and  silver,  floors  in  rich 
mosaic,  the  vaulted  roofs  splendid  in  blue  and  gold, 
the  escutcheons  of  this  powerful  family  emblaz- 
oned everywhere — chairs  of  lordly  proportions, 
richly  carved  divans,  sculptured  cabinets,  prie- 
dieux,  dressers,  coffers  carved  in  elaborate  designs, 
chests  wrought  in  metal,  the  beds  raised  upon  plat- 
forms and  richly  set  out  in  brocades  and  laces — 
perfumes,  embroideries  in  luxurious  profusion. 
And  upon  all  this  melee  of  colour  and  sumptuous- 
ness  the  statues  of  St.  Anne,  St.  Margaret  and  St. 
Catharine  looked  down! 

Nor  are  the  details  less  precise  concerning  the 
banqueting  hall  of  this  veritable  palace.  From 
the  gorgeous  chimney-pieces  to  the  rare  sauces 
and  wines,  all  was  in  the  same  princely  fashion. 
And  we  see  Gilles  de  Rais  in  the  midst  of  his  un- 


CLISSON,  THE  GROTTO  OF  ABELARD    205 

godly  guests — the  perfect  illustration  of  his  type- 
the  product  of  the  age  which  made  the  type  pos- 
sible. 

To-day  we  wander  about  among  ruined  arches 
and  in  the  gloomy  subterranean  chapel  we  note 
the  oubliette.  Still  deeper  underground  is  the 
prison  where  scores  of  little  girls,  awaiting  their 
turn  in  the  horrors,  were  rescued  by  the  authorities 
searching  the  castle  for  evidence  when  the  day  of 
reckoning  finally  arrived. 

Thus  we  find  Morbihan  furnishing  rather 
gloomy  studies,  and  yielding  the  most  lugubrious 
impressions  of  any  of  the  Departments  of  Brit- 
tany. The  Spirit  of  Druidism,  the  bold  and  in- 
trepid Jeanne  de  Montfort,  the  somber  picture  of 
the  Breton  Bluebeard,  the  pathetic  romance  of 
Abelard  and  Heloise — afford  to  the  traveller 
gloomy  souvenirs  of  Morbihan.  And  lastly  the 
intrepid  Chouans  play  their  role.  The  stern  inde- 
pendence of  the  Breton  character  is  found  com- 
plete in  Chouannerie,  and  in  the  wars  of  the  Ven- 
dee a  century  ago  the  Breton  played  a  distin- 
guished part.  Thus  the  political  history  of  Brit- 
tany begins  with  the  Druids  three  thousand  years 
ago  and  ends  with  the  exploits  of  the  Chouans  in 

1793. 

We  have  found  that  of  the  five  Departments  of 
Brittany,  Finistere  may  be  named  the  Depart- 
ment of  Art  and  Religion;  the  C6tes-du-Nord  is 
filled  with  souvenirs  of  feudal  Brittany  and  the  ex- 


206  THE  SPELL  OF  BRITTANY 

ploits  of  her  dukes  and  counts;  the  Loire-Infe- 
rieure  of  which  Nantes  is  the  capital,  and  Ille-et- 
Vilaine  of  which  Rennes  is  the  chief  city,  have  be- 
come more  modern  in  spirit,  and  Morbihan  may 
be  named  the  most  strongly  Keltic  Department  of 
the  Province. 

If  in  these  little  journeys  together  we  have  suc- 
ceeded in  interpreting  to  our  readers  in  some  de- 
gree the  landscape  and  the  people  of  Brittany,  the 
genius,  psychology  and  mysticism  of  the  Bretons, 
the  object  of  these  pages  will  have  been  accom- 
plished. 


INDEX 


Abbaye-Aux-Bois,  54. 

Abbe  de  Coulanges,  22. 

Abbess  of  St.  Croix,  132. 

Abbey  of  Lebron,  65. 

Abbey  of  St.  Gildas,  200. 

Abelard,  200. 

Adams,  Henrv,  13. 

Albert,  The  Monk,  169. 

All  Soul's  Eve,  119. 

Anne  of  Brittany,  7,  9,  II,  99. 

123-193,  I94-I9S,  197- 
"Anne     of     Brittany    and     Her 

Wooden  Shoes,"  105. 
Arez   Mountains,    104,   140,    141, 

166,  171,  172. 
Armorica,  5,  8,  9. 
Arthur,  King,  124,  125. 
Arthurian  Tales,  6,  184. 
"Atala,"  52. 

"Au  Pays  des  Pardons,"  93,  167. 
Auber,  Saint,  43,  44. 
Audierne,  134. 
Ankou,  177. 

Avranches,  Bishop  of,  43,  44 
Azenor,   174,   175,  176. 


B 


Balzac,  133,  136. 

Barenton,  Foreword,  Page  3. 

"Battle  of  the  Thirty,"  Legend, 

179- 
Batz,  185. 

Beaumont,  Madame  de,  53. 
Begana,  34,  35,  36. 
Belle-Ile-en-Mer,   132,   133. 
Belliere  la,  61. 
Beranger,  Pierre  Jean,  74. 
Bernhardt,  Sarah,  133,  134. 


Binet,  25. 
Black  Mass,  202. 
Black  Mountains,   140. 
Blanche,  of  St.  Malo,  65. 
Blois,   196. 
Bluebeard,  6,   59. 
Bluebeard  Legends,  132. 
Botrel,  Theodore,   104. 
Boulanger,  General,  25. 
Brest,  50,   128. 
Breton   Angelus,    131. 
Bretonez-Tramor,   107. 
Breton    faience,   140. 
Brittany,  Duchess  of,  44,  153- 
Broceliande,  Foreword,  3,  184. 
Brizeux,   103,  148,   149. 
Browning,  Robert,  Introduction. 

20,  60,  61,  134,  160,  187,  188. 

189,  190. 
Browning,  Mrs.,  7,  60. 


Cadnec,  Jean,  48. 

Caesar,  Julius,  5,  6,  7,  9,  10,   16. 

Cancale,  Bay  of,  40,  43. 

Calvaries,  Foreword   I,   101. 

Calvinists,  15. 

Calvinism,  15. 

Canticle  of  St.  Yves,  98. 

Carcassonne,  Foreword  3. 

Carhaix,  6,  141. 

Carnac,  6,  7,  90,  115,  158. 

Cartier,  Jacques,  48. 

Casternec  Mountains,   142. 

Catholicism,   66. 

Celtic,  Introduction  7,  10,  16,  6, 

8,  33,  56,  101,  120. 
Celts,   Introduction  21,  8,  9. 
Chantal,  Madame  de,  23. 
Chapel,     The,     of     the     Seven 

Saints,  162. 


207 


208 


INDEX 


Chapelain,  18. 
Charlemagne,  40,  44. 
Chartres,  Cathedral  of,  13,  14. 
Chateau  des  Roches,  7. 
Chateaubriand,    Francois,    Rene, 

7,  49,  50,  52,  53.  54,  55- 
Chateaubriand,  Lucille,  50. 
Chouans,  205. 
Clissons,  17. 
Clisson,  Oliver,  183. 
Clovis,   10. 

Coetguen,  65,  66,  67. 
Coquelin,  28. 
Coligny,  15. 
Couesnon,  39. 
Concarneau.  7,  162. 
Constant,  Benjamin,  54. 
Combourg,  Chateau  at,  49. 
Corneille,   16,   18. 
C6tes-du-Nord,  7,  48,  65,  82,  106, 

no,  205. 
Cuvellier,  29. 

Croisic,  Introduction  20,  7. 
"Croisic,    Two    Poets    of,"    160, 

183,   184,   185,   186,   187,   188, 

189,  190. 


De  Conti,  Prince,  19. 

De  Lude,  Comte,  19. 

De  Maistre,  Joseph,  n. 

De  Rais,  Gilles,  6,  201,  202,  203, 

204. 
De  Retz,  Cardinal,  132. 
Delilles,  53. 
Deroulede,  Paul,  28. 
Descartes,   Rene,   26. 
Devonshire,  Duchess  of,  54. 
Dinan,  10,  31,  50,  61,  62,  63,  65. 
Dinard,  49,  59,  60,  61. 
Dol,  36,  27,  50. 
Dolman,   172. 

Douarnenez,  Bay  of,  134. 
Dreyfus,  26. 

Druid  Book,  5,  9,  26,  38,  159,  170. 
Druidism,    10,    11,    158. 
Druidic,   11. 
Druidess,    n,    131. 


Du  Guesclin,  6,  12,  17,  28,  29, 
3i,  32,  33,  36,  37.  38,  61,  62, 
63,  186. 

Duguay-Trouin,  49. 

Dumas,  Alexander,  132,  164. 

Durocher,  109. 


ficole  des  Beaux  Arts,  47. 
Edgeworth,  Miss,  54. 
Eisteddfod,  Introduction  6. 
Elle,  142. 

Elorn,  River,  123,  125. 
Elven,  Tower  of,  179. 
Ernault,   109. 


Fairies,  171. 

Fete  of  Notre  Dame  de  Fol- 
goat, 127. 

Fete  of  St.  Yves,  88,  89,  96. 

Fete  of  the  Solstice,  167,  168. 

Feval,   Paul,  25. 

Finistere,  4,  30,  61,  102,  106,  129, 
130,   138,   149,   170,  171.  205. 

First  Grenadier  of  France,  141. 

Folgoat,  126. 

Folklore,  Foreword,  I. 

Fontanes,  53. 

Fool  of  the  Forest  of  Folgoat, 
125. 

Forest  of  Paimpont,  183. 

Frondeuse,  18. 

Fouquet,   19. 

French  Revolution,  9. 

Froude,  18. 


Gallo-Roman,  8. 

Garaye,  La — See  La  Garaye, 

Garde  Joyeuse   of   Arthur,   124, 

125. 
Gargantua's  Pebbles,   163. 
Gaul,  6,  8,  9,  10. 
"Gil  Bias,"  85. 
Girondet,  49. 
"Golden   Hair,"   190. 


INDEX 


209 


Gothic,  is,  82,  151. 

Gourin,  172. 

Great  Britain,  8,  9. 

Grotto  of  Abelard  and  Heloise, 

162. 
Grotto,  fairies  of  the,  172. 
"Groach  er  Gouard,"  142. 
Guerande,  7,  14,  185,  186. 
Geurin,  Maurice  de,  66,  67. 
Guesclin — See    Du    Guesclin. 
Guenn,  7,  143,  144,  145,  146. 
Gwenc'hlan,   Foreword,  3. 
Guidel,  170. 
Guingamp,    Introduction,    6,    14, 

36,  77,  165. 

H 

Heloise,  6,  200. 

Hennebout,   150,   152,  153. 

Henri  II,  56. 

Herve  Riel,  Introduction,  20,  61, 

187,  188,  189. 
Hotel  Carnavalet,   18. 
Hotel   Rambouillet,   18. 
Howard,   Blanche  Willis,   143. 
Huelgoat,  134. 
Hugo,  Victor,  54. 
Huysman,  Joris  Karl,  13. 
Huguenots,  15. 


Ile-et-Vilaine,    Introduction,    22. 

Book,  4,  161,  206. 
Island  of  Ouessant,  128,  129. 
Isle  of  Sein,  130,  131,  134,  161. 
Isole,  142. 


Jaffrenou,  Francois,  104. 
"James  Lee's  Wife,"  191. 
Jean  of  Pontorson,  33. 
Jeanne   d'Arc,    12. 
"Jeanne-la-Flamme,"     153,     154, 

155,  156. 
Job  la  Poulaine,   no,  in. 
Josselin,   180,   181. 
Joubert,  53. 


K 


Karmartin,  Manor  House  of,  93, 

95,  96. 
King  Arthur — See  Arthur. 


La    Belliere — See   Belliere. 
La  Borderie,  8. 

Le     Braz,     Anatole,     Introduc- 
tion, 26,  81,  93,  96,  103,  166, 

177,    183. 
La  Chenaie,  7,  54,  66,  75. 
La  Faouet,  141. 
La   Fontaine,   18. 
La  Garaye,  63,  64. 
"La  Legande  de  la  Mort,"  177. 
La  Tour  d'Auvergne,  6. 
Laita,  142. 
Lamartine,  54. 
Lamennais,   Felix  de,  7,  54,  66, 

70,  71,  73,  75- 
Landerneau,  123,  139,  140. 
Lanleff,  Temple  of,  82. 
Lawyer,   Saint,  93,  95,  96. 
Le  Croisic,   148,   185. 
"Le  Gardien  du  Feu."  103. 
Le  Goffic,  Charles,  Introduction. 

9,  103,  183. 
Le  Notre,  21. 
Le  Galet,  199. 

"Le   Pardon   de   Ploermel,"    179. 
"Le  Roi  d'Ys,"  134. 
Le  Sage,  7. 

"La  Terre  du  Passe,"  103. 
"Les  Derniers  Bretons,"  100. 
Les  Roches,  15,  16,  18,  19,  20,  22, 

23,  201. 
Les  Precieuses  Ridicules,  18. 
L'Avenir,  66. 
Legends,    Foreword,    2,    27,    64, 

93,    100,    125,    126,    132,    134. 

140,   167,   169,   172,    174,   179, 

188,  201. 
Legend  of  Ys,  134,  138. 
Leonaise,  101. 
Lisle,  Leconte  de,  59. 
Little  Brittany,  9. 
Locmariaquer,   160,   163. 


210 


INDEX 


Lohonnec,  86. 

Loire  Inferieure,  192,  206. 

L'Orient,  148,  149. 

Loti,  Pierre,  6,  77,  79,  80,  103. 

Louis  XII,   123. 

Louis  XIV,  45,  46,  128. 

Louis  XV,  46. 

Loup  Garou,  167. 

Lower  Brittany,  112,   121. 

Luzel,  103,  106. 

M 

Malesherbes,  50. 

Malivet,  Louis,  Introduction,  22- 

23. 

Marie  of  France,  56,  104. 
Morgan,  Mary,   171. 
"Mary,  Star  of  the  Sea,"  78. 
Marbeuf,  General,  25. 
Marc'harit,  Phulup,  7,  8,  13,  14, 

15,   16,   17,    18,    19,   104,   105, 

106,  107,  108,  no,  198. 
Menage,  18. 

Menez-Bre,  Foreword,  3. 
Merimee,  Prosper,  54,  142. 
Merlin,  The  Enchanter,  125,  184. 
Middle  Ages,  5,  157. 
Mignard,  21. 
Minihy,  97,  98. 
Mivoie,  181. 
Moliere,  18. 
Montfort,  Jeanne  de,  Countess, 

151,  152,  157- 
Mont  St.  Michel,  27,  39,  40,  41, 

45,  46,  47- 
Mosher,  Ange  M.,  Introduction, 

3,   8,   9,    14,    16,    17,    18,    19, 

20,  21,  22,  24,  25. 
Morbihan,  4,   90,    106,    115,    116, 

200,  205.  206. 
Morgan-la-Fee,  171. 
Morlaix,  99. 
Motte  Broon,  31. 
Moulton,  Louise  Chandler,  64. 


N 


Nantes,  193. 
Napoleon  I,  53. 


Natchez,  52. 

Nicole,  16. 

"Nightingale,"  The,  56,  59. 

Nizou,  Parish  of,  146. 

Normandy,  39,  40. 

Normans,  39. 

Notre  Dame  du  Folgoat,  126. 

o 

"Oh !  Breiz  Izel,"  77. 

Olivier,  Pere,  54. 

Order  of  Chivalry  for  Women, 

196. 
Ouessant,  Island  of,  130. 


Paimpol,  6,  77,  78,  79.  80,  81,  82. 

Paimfont,   184. 

Pardon,  122. 

Pardon  of  St.  Yves,  96,  98. 

Pardon  of  the  Poor,  96. 

Parsifal,  56. 

"Pecheurs  d'Islande,  6,  77,  103. 

Pere  Lachaise,  75. 

Phulup,  Introduction,  7,  13,  14, 
15,  x6,  17,  18,  19  (See  Marc'- 
harit.) 

Pierre  Longue,  190. 

Poulard,  Madame,  41,  42. 

Plelan,  184. 

Pliny,  6. 

Ploermel,   179. 

Plomodiern,  140. 

Plouarazel,  161. 

Plouaret,   106,   162. 

Ploubalasnec,  79,  81. 

Plouet,  161. 

Plougastel,  114,  125. 

Ploumanach,  166. 

Pluzunet,  19,  82,  105. 

Poemes  Barbares,  59. 

Pointe  du  Raz,  130. 

Pont  Aven,  7. 

Pontorson,  27,  28,  29,  30,  32,  34, 

36,  37,  57- 
"Popular  Tales,"  106. 
Pornic,  7,  190. 

Port,    Etienne,   Introduction,   20. 
Porz.  Evan,  80. 


* 


INDEX 


211 


Provence,  Count  of,  19. 
Portrieux,  82. 


Quimper,  140. 
Quimperle,  8,  140,  141. 

R 

Rabelais,  20,  23. 

Rabutin-Chantal,   17. 

Racine,  16,  18. 

Ranee,  49,  61,  62,  63,  65. 

Recamier,  Madame,  53. 

Renan,  Ernest,  7,  83,  84,  85,  86, 

88,  104,  132,  138,  149. 
Renaissance,  63,  82. 
Rennes,  25,  26,  30,  62,  86,  195. 
Richelieu,   Cardinal,    128. 
"Riel,  Herve" — See  Herve. 
Rocking  Stones,  162. 
Rohan,  123,  141. 
Rohan,  Duke  de,  182. 
Roland,  Song  of,  44. 
Roman,  8,  9,  82,  83. 
"Romance    of    a    Poor    Young 

Man,"  179. 
Romans,  8,  10. 
Round  Table,  Romance  of,  124. 


St.  Anne  d'Auray,  157. 

St.  Armel,  Legend  of,  179,  180. 

St.-Beuve,  54,  71. 

St.  Cadoc,  91. 

St.  Corentin,  140. 

St.  Comely,  91,  160. 

St.  Eloi,  91,  139. 

St.  Enogat,  60. 

St.  Fiacre,  141. 

St.  Gildas,  91. 

St.  Guenole,  135. 

St.  Goustan,  190. 

St.  Herbert,  91. 

St.  Herve,  91. 

St.  Idunet,  Introduction,  18. 

St.  Ivy,  91. 


St.  Jean,  167. 

St.  Korion,  91. 

St.  Malo,  7,  48,  49,  50,  54.  S6,  57, 

59,  61. 
St.  Michael,  43,  44. 
Sts.  of   Brittany,  Lives  of,   169. 
St.  Onene,  91. 
St.  Pabu,  91. 

St.    Peter,    Introduction,   24,   89. 
St.  Pol-de-Leon,  101,  102. 
St.  Tremeur,  90. 
St.  Tudwell,  83. 
St.  Tu-pe-du,  169. 
St.  Urlou,  90. 
St.  Yves,  83,  86,  87,  89,  90,  92, 

94,  9<5,  97,  1 01. 


Tacitus,  6. 

Taden,  64. 

Taliesin,  159. 

Temple,    The,    of    the    Pagans, 

129. 
"The  Lady  of  Coetguen,"  65. 
The  Roses  of  La  Garaye,"  64. 
Tiezcelin,  103. 
Tiffauges,   Castle  of,  204. 
Tocqueville,   54. 
Toussaint,    177. 
Treguier,   7,   82,   83,   84,   85,   87, 

90,  94,  96,  157,  201. 
Treguier,  Cathedral  of,  86,  94. 
Tristram  and  Yseult,  56. 
Tregor,  Introduction,  18. 
Tudwell,  St.,  83. 
Turenne,   19. 
Typhaine  Rageunel,  30.  61,  62. 


U 


Union  Regionaliste  Breton,  105. 
University  of  Rennes,  108. 


Vannes,  115,  200. 
Veillee,  120. 

Vendee,  Wars  of  the,  205. 
Venus  of  Quinipily,  142. 


212 


INDEX 


Versailles,  23. 
Vichy,  17. 

Villemarque,  33,  103,  135,  153. 
Virgin  of  Guingamp,  77. 
Vitr6,  13,  14,   15,   16,  20,  21,  24, 
201. 

W 

Westward   Islands    (Now  Great 
Britain),  8. 


"Wife  of  the  Gray  Wolf,  The." 

178. 
"Words  of  a  Believer,"  71,  72. 

Y 

Ys,  City  of,  135. 

Ys,  The  Submersion  of,  135. 

Yves.   Helotry   (See  St.   Yves). 

Z 

Zola,  Emile,  70. 


DC611  B848M6X 
Mosher,  Ange  McKay, 
The  spell  of  Brittany, 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA   001  347  1 


3  1210  00507  5955 


